


Appears So Rushed

by NowWeOwnTheNight



Series: Haikyuu!! AUs [6]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, and is bullied a lot, idk how ghosts work but this isn't it, iwaizumi is a sad kid living alone, oikawa is a ghost, the pairing is background, there isn't much romance between oikawa and iwa, who cares i tried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8610928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NowWeOwnTheNight/pseuds/NowWeOwnTheNight
Summary: The attic is full of dust, the bed up there perfectly made, pictures ripped out of frames and clothes still hung in the dresser. Posters on the walls. Medals hanging from hooks.There’s nothing like that in Hajime’s room: minimalist furniture, whites and greys and blacks, a pastel yellow sheet on his duvet, a red case on a phone that sits by his bed.A phone he rarely plugs in before he sleeps.Overall, Oikawa finds Iwaizumi interesting.And that’s… That’s something.





	1. So Capricious

**Author's Note:**

> so basically i couldn't sleep and i jokingly thought that there was a ghost in my house and lo and behold this shit has been created \o/

  * ••••



 

He goes in to hiding, at first.

He’s never had to deal with a lone person- a high school kid, at that. It’s usually small families, new couples, little children, old retirees. Easy to scare. Easy to piss off, freak out, have the contractor back in in a mater of days, the realtor plucking his hair and eternally confounded as to why he can’t find anyone willing to stay in the tiny house.

Sure, it’s crowded and only has two bedrooms on the top floor and one bathroom on the bottom under the stairs, crammed in beside the laundry. Its kitchen opens nicely to the porch and backyard with folding doors- the garden isn’t very large for the street and neighborhood, yet not exactly expansive and overcome by a jungle of weeds. For a small lot, the house is strangely economic and cozy. The second level creaks with every step and the attic is full of dust, the bed up there perfectly made, pictures ripped out of frames and clothes still hung in the closet. Posters on the walls. Medals hanging from hooks.

There’s nothing like that in Hajime’s room: minimalistic furniture, whites and greys and blacks, a pastel yellow sheet on his duvet, a red case on a phone that sits by his bed.

A phone he rarely plugs in before he sleeps.

He’s noticed a lot of things about Iwaizumi Hajime.

The kid moved in to town from somewhere far enough to be an ‘inconvenience’ for relatives to visit. Living alone was the only option as he’s too scared to live with anyone else and would rather be by himself. He hasn’t brought a friend back in the week he’s lived in the house. His mother- no mention of a father or other parent –calls him frequently to check up on him, to ask how his school is, to tell him about the financial situation, to talk about his younger brother and what’s going on back at home. His mother is working herself down to the bone trying to keep him there, swearing it’s always worth it to hear him laughing and talking about how nice his school is. And he lies, he lies right through his bruised jaw and chipped teeth, ignoring the tears and biting his tongue to stop himself from telling her that some kids had found him out on day one. That the beatings have never really stopped- that he’s just as depressed and hateful of himself as ever.

Overall, Oikawa finds Iwaizumi _interesting_.

And that’s… That’s _something_.

Iwaizumi talks to himself. A _lot_.

He sings in the shower and narrates while he cooks, makes conversation with the sauce bowls at dinner, hums to himself when he takes leftover fish out to the side of the house that’s been claimed by mounds of catnip. On nights when he can’t sleep, he goes to the lounge room and lays on the couch, staring at the TV’s pictures, eyes unfocused on the bright pictures moving across it. There are times where he will bury his face in to his pillow and scream, where he will open the window and hang most of his body out of the second story, where he’d be crying so hard he loses all his energy and heaps himself on the floor of the entryway and passes out for an hour or two. As more bruises appear, more days are spent staring at blank homework pages and pretty lies on his phone screen as the time stamps get further and further apart. It’s almost like Iwaizumi wants to become invisible to the world.

Content to stay in the little house and never emerge, never to be bothered by the real world again.

Oikawa finds him _very_ interesting.

Perhaps the most intriguing bit is that he’s started making notes of what’s changing without him doing anything. He’ll calmly take a post-it and scrawl down an object and a location, surrounded by question marks- read it out loud as he goes, verbally re-running his day to make sure he’s _not_ going insane. He’s hesitant to admit it, but Oikawa _has_ taken a liking to the tenant. Contrary to how he treated prior occupants of his house, he started out small- helping in tiny ways as much as he does little things to piss Iwaizumi off –and it has now developed in to a real, _actual_ commitment on his half. The concern he tries to mask with slamming doors and turning on the microwave in the middle of the night: it shows, it overtakes his peeving nature every time Iwaizumi comes home covered in bruises after getting bashed. The irritating acts cease for a few days, helpful moves with increasing niceties coming in their place.

For instance, right now: a pastel pink note with _‘blankets tucked in’_. A finger too swollen to grasp the pencil properly in his right hand, tissue from last night stuck to the bottom of his nose by dried blood.

There are fresh flowers on the windowsill when Iwaizumi goes down to have breakfast, and he jots it down. _‘Flowers… Again. Chrysanthemums this time, didn’t know there were any in the backyard.’_

“Heh, yeah,” Oikawa smirks to himself, hovering over Iwaizumi’s shoulder, “If you ever fucking bothered to go out there.”

His cup of noodles mysteriously gains about half the bottle of chili sauce, sending the boy rushing for the milk in the fridge. Eventually, the burn calms down, and he decides to bin the noodles and sip his coffee. Brown stains the wall in a huge splatter mark- he spits out the mouthful, scowling at the cup.

“Again?! Are you fucking-” Giving up halfway, Iwaizumi pegs the plastic mug- he’s _learnt_ –in to the sink, grousing the whole way up the stairs, post-it in hand. _‘SALT AND CHILI AGAIN >:(‘_ goes on the list that gets slapped on a wall between the bathroom and the door to the bedroom. “I need to start a damn tally…” A few older ones flutter to the floor, unsettled by the force at which Iwaizumi sticks it in place.

Shower time is even better- he fucks with the pressure and temperature mercilessly, keeping Iwaizumi on edge, frustrating him yet not enraging him, perfectly as planned. The shower lasts no longer than a minute, but at least Iwaizumi is clean and awake.

Iwaizumi takes a deep breath- in through the nose, out through the mouth. Calmly, he picks a towel up, dries his chest and under his arms, shakes his hair out, and chucks the towel with all his might at the showerhead. Oikawa is wolf-whistling and hooting- not that the boy can hear him –when Iwaizumi steps out and in to his room, freezing at the sight.

It’s not even eleven on a Saturday morning, and Oikawa is pulling out _all_ the stops, today.

“Can the spirit possessing this house _please_ _stop_.”

 

Weekends and Iwaizumi do not go together very well. They’re a perfect excuse for the boy to space out and ignore life for two whole days, forgetting to drink and eat, forgoing showers and basic care in favor of staying in bed or laying on the couch, migrating to the toilet occasionally.

Iwaizumi gets to school on time on Monday with a more-than-healthy and totally-normal-slash-safe-from-supernatural-intervention weekend in the bank, and Oikawa gets his entertainment for the weekend: hiding every pencil and pen in the house to force Iwaizumi out of his room for longer than a few minutes, packing and unpacking the dishes by the sink, making sure his inhaler is in an obvious spot, making a mess or knocking on the door and finishing meals off while Iwaizumi is distracted and thus saving the boy from chopping his fingers off or blowing himself up by spraying cooking oil directly on to the flame.

 

  * ••••



 

“Iwaizumi, are you okay?” Hanamaki punches Iwaizumi hard in the arm, right on a fresh bruise, and Matsukawa going for a less paining one-armed hug; today, his bullies got creative and tried to force him head-first into a toilet, resorting to smashing his shoulders and the back of his neck in an attempt to weaken his strength. It was only luck that he got away without a mess of bruising outside the uniform’s confines, as the final bell for class to start was deemed far more interesting than drowning him in the filthy bowl- “You look super tired!”

Tiredness. That’s another issue. He wonders how easy is it for them to sleep without itching scabs, grey-blue on his knees and elbows that make every position uncomfortable. He keeps thinking that, maybe, this will get easier- this won’t go on for so long- this could be a better place than his last school, and he’ll be able to pass in peace.

Wistful, wistful, and impossibly more wistful.

“I couldn’t sleep last night.”

“Haha, is there a ghost in your house? Haba keeps saying he’s got one.”

“I, on the other hand, think it’s just Kyotani spying on him while he sleeps.”

“Personally, Mattsun, I think Kyotani would be Iwa’s ghost! He’s got a massive fucking crush on you-”

Even though the effort twinges his shoulders and burns along the length of his back, he shrugs Matsukawa’s arm off of him. The dark-haired boy stares down at him in surprise- well, as surprised as Iwaizumi has seen that eternally bored expression of his.

“Could you guys- not… I’m _not_ _gay_ , okay?”

“Hey, hey- hanging out with us, you’re gonna _get_ gay. It’s a team thing.”

“That’s kinda why I’m not _on_ your team-”

“But that’s why you should- we’re _all_ a team, and everyone leaves us alone. We don’t care what you like, so long as you’re not a dick about it, and about other peoples shit as well. If they fuck with one of us, they fuck with all of us.”

“All the gay.”

“ _All the gay_ -”

“Could you two _please_ , just. Leave me alone, today?”

“Oh- okay, yeah, sure man!” Hanamaki drags Matsukawa away, waving energetically. Iwaizumi will never understand those two. “We’ll- we’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Yeah…”

“And give it some thought! Offer stands, man, you’d be great on our team!”

“I’ll… I’ll think about it, Makki... Thanks.”

They strut out, heading back to their classes. Every call and laugh they leave in their wake has Iwaizumi flinching, his nails rapping hard on the knuckles of his other hand, eyes on the box of food in front of him. His knuckles ache from clenching, the skin of his back is tingling numb, and it feels like someone has stuck a javelin through his stomach.

Yesterday was tripping him after school, kicking him until he couldn’t draw breath.

The day before was standing on his chest and yelling _words_ , forcing him to listen, covering his mouth and pinning his arms when he tried to block his ears.

It’s nothing he’s not used to.

For once in his life, he can’t _wait_ to get home- he itches, in the good way, to return to his lovely little solitude for the night, readying himself for hump-day; a lovely balancing point between the two agonizing days more and the two haunting days since. Monday had been- as it always is –the beginning of a downhill in his mood, his life, his health, his everything. The only difference, now, is that the weekend just past was more restful than any recent one he can recall. Heck, he had even considered taking up the two third year’s offer and joined the boys volleyball club, hence why they’d grown increasingly persistent. After seeing a tiny crack in his armor, they’re pouncing on any opportunity in the hopes that Iwaizumi will cave and join.

Being the only two third years must be tough, and he gets that, but he’s not sure if he belongs there- in such a high-status team -as a new-coming upperclassman. No one fucks with the Aoba Jōsai Volleyball Team. They don’t dare let a disturbance reach the ears of the two third years. He fears to wonder why, but can only be thankful that they’re nice to him; he was no exceptional volleyballer in middle high, and hardly got the chance to stay on his last team for a month before the poisonous rumor spread.

_Iwaizumi Hajime has a boyfriend._

_Iwaizumi Hajime is gay._

_Iwaizumi Hajime is disgusting, letting someone do that to him!_

_Iwaizumi likes guys, why would I bother hanging out with him if he’s not in to me?_

_Iwaizumi Hajime is a fucking faggot, why would we let him in the locker room where he can perv on us changing?!_

Again…

It’s nothing he’s never heard before- nothing he hasn’t told himself a million times.

 

  * ••••




	2. I'm Just Treading Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IWAOI IS LOV E IWAOI IS LIFE

  * ••••



 

“Inhaler in bag, everything is good, ‘it’ll be a good Friday, please, one good day’… Ah, why the fuck do I even bother being so hopeful for this guy. What did he expect…” Oikawa tells himself, watching on sadly as Iwaizumi drags himself to the front door, keys shaking in his hand, the door slamming against the wall sending him cowering back against the entryway wall. His stuttering breath catches as he steps over to slam it shut, his bag falling off of his shoulder. “It always turns out this way.”

Unable to watch another round of Iwaizumi-cries-so-hard-he-knocks-himself-out, Oikawa goes to the backyard and sits down on the swing, levitating himself back and forth to mimic the movement. It takes a while for his focus to turn to controlling the physical world but when it does, he brings the swing up to pace with himself, rocking under the cherry tree. Green and de-flowered in late summer, the tree stands tall as ever, unhindered by the loss it allowed for- at least, in Oikawa’s mind, that’s the way he views this tree in particular. The branch that supports the swing is longer than he remembers. Maybe it’s a little greener in the midday sun, yet it could be his imagination. It tends to overgrow, making up perfectly poor excuses for stifling any opportunity: his imagination, that is. After death, it seems to be the only thing he has time for… Harrying people out of his childhood home aside.

His parents moved out shortly after his death, and as much as he would have _loved_ to know where they’ve moved to and haunt the hell out of their lives, he’s unable to leave. And although many- and a majority of his own mind -will say ‘ _boo_ , sentiment, you’re dead you may as well live’, it’s not the emotional attachment to the house that keeps him bound. As though surrounded by a barrier, he is incapable of setting foot off of the property boundaries. His force over objects reaches the same limit, his influence removed once they hit the border as well.

The swing in the shoebox backyard is the easiest and lightest thing on-site, so that’s where he spends most of his time. Neighbors being blissfully old and ignorant are a blessing, allowing him to swing on it often without drawing attention. Irony that the very ropes that assisted him in taking his life now give him the freedom to feel the way he did when he lived- that’s long since lost its sting, ceases to repulse him. Looking to the sky, he tilts himself back and loses himself in the thought of wind blowing through his hair. Much unlike he’s seen Iwaizumi do in early Sunday mornings when Oikawa throws the blinds open, he doesn’t have to squint against the full force of the sun. It’s as though the harsh heat, its intensity, has been dialed down to match the rest of the dully-coloured world. To him, the sunlight is of the same force of the moon in the night, evening out the spin of the earth and its ever-changing shadows to a forced, artificial, perpetual brightness.

For whatever reason, being a ghost only makes a flatline of a real life; even taking away the beep of a life-support machine and the backlit monitor that watches the heart stop, leaving him in this terrible, sensory-devoid limbo. Noises cease to move him and sights go right through him the same way as he goes through them. There’s the occasional sway when people come and go, but that’s exactly what they do. _Come and go. Come and go…_ _The trouble this could have sav_ ed, he thinks, _if the swing was here when I was…_

He doesn’t realise he’s being watched- the _swing_ is being watched –until he hears the folding doors squeak along their rollers. Stopping instantly and hovering, he’s too overcome by the sight of slack-jawed Iwaizumi to think to make the swing stop.

Iwaizumi slowly walks out of the house to investigate, stepping off of the porch and in to the grass. He’s bare-footed, unthinkingly leaving the house behind at the sight of a swing going all by itself. He takes a seat on the swing, kicking his feet against the ground to send it rocking. As an almost fully-grown man, he’s fairly hunched up on the seat, struggling to keep his feet off of the ground and keep the swing moving. After a minute, the lonely boy mumbles something to himself.

“Just me and the ghost, huh…”

His hands loosen their grip, and he worries the rope with his fingertips, picking threads of the coarse, weaved fibers, running up and down the grime-laced bumps of the braids.

Oikawa’s neck tingles. For a fleeting moment- he's certain he didn't imagine it -being seen doesn’t terrify his mind in to numbness.

 

  * ••••



 

“Neatened desk, _wow_ , I am truly blessed.”

“Oh, flattery! Nice try,” Oikawa stage whispers, bold in the assuredness that Iwaizumi can’t hear him, “You’re in for some fun when you- oh- organized man, here he goes-”

“Where are my coloured pencils?”

“And here’s the thing, alright…” He talks to the drab void of a world, hovering a few feet behind Iwaizumi, stalking him down the stairs, “It’s a damn Sunday, you’ve been doing all your homework- broken up by going to the toilet and migrating to the kitchen- _yes,_ migrating, Iwa, I heard you reporting your own trip to the fridge like a damn nature documentary. I’m actually doing you a favor! I know you hate the shit out of weekends, but you have to leave the bedroom. And damn, I wish that was, y’know, in the cutesy, cuddly way- or even the kinky, sexy way- but _no_ , you know what, no! You’re a depressed little shit, and if I can make you get the fuck up by hiding your pencils, then _by God_ am I gonna!”

“Fuck it, I’m getting a snack.”

“There you go again! Damnit, Iwa! Eat, sleep, shit, and study- that’s all you wanna do, huh.”

He slams the kettle on the stovetop and chucks noodles in it, rolling his eyes when the stiff ends stick out the top. Still close to boiled from the tea he made an hour ago, the rice noodles soften and fall in to the hot water. He goes for a spoon to stir the noodles, halting at the cutlery drawer that is now full of plates and bowls.

“Fuck- _come on_ …”

“Yes, I did switch every drawer just to fuck with you. And I’m gonna do it again next week. And the week after. It’ll keep you on your toes! Trust me!”

“This is bullshit.” He slams the draw shut and opens the one next to it, giving it the same treatment when it only shows him cups. “This is _such_ bullshit.”

“Aw, Iwa, don’t be like that! If you’re gonna be a grump…”

Iwaizumi hears the sound of grating on the floor above him, a distinct scrape of table legs-

“Oh- _oh, no you don’t-_ ”

“Woah!!” Oikawa cries, laughing as Iwaizumi moves the fastest he’s seen the guy go since he got here- he nearly trips on the first step and catches himself seconds before his nose smashes in to the point of the fourth stair, carrying on scrabbling up to the second floor and to his room.

“ _Damnit_!! Why?!”

“Yes, yes- isn’t it _marvelous_?!”

“Why the hell did you reverse-”

“Reverse all the furniture in your room? Because you’re a grumpy-butt. Simple as.”

“Fuck! Why?! That’s so-! Do you have _any_ idea how annoying this- augh, _really_? Did you _think_ this was helpful? What the fuck!?”

When Iwaizumi returns to his study- now with a lovely view of the backyard -he skims right over the lead-pencil additions in a far more proper handwriting style on his history quiz, brushes the eraser rubbings out of the way without pausing to think about the fact that he doesn’t even have one handy.

 

  * ••••



 

After he comes home from school on Monday, bloody-mouthed and with a twisted arm, his bag holds the crumpled test that scored ninety-nine.

“Guess you’re good for something.” He spits in to the kitchen sink, jumping to save his molar tooth before it goes down the drain.

A bowl full of soup on the splintering kitchen floorboards later, he takes a few minutes of standing in the hall, staring into the lounge until he catches on.

“Couch… I should’ve known because of the couch…”

“Oh, _Iwa-chan_ , you flatter me.”

Oikawa had taken the liberty of reversing every other room perfectly, all to match Iwaizumi’s newly restyled bedroom.

With the exception of the kitchen and bathroom, of course, because he doesn’t want to cause Iwaizumi’s mother the trouble of having to pay for re-plumbing. Or re-flooring. It may be broken and dangerous, but it still holds Iwaizumi’s weight. Barely.

 

  * ••••



 

The front door slams open and shut, Iwaizumi’s sudden arrival startling Oikawa out of the garden- he drops the cuttings he’s taken of the chrysanthemums around the swing and soars lightning-quick into the entryway.

“… It’s been a bad day for Iwa-chan, huh?”

It’s been a bad _week_ for Iwaizumi. No matter what Oikawa tries, the boy rarely holds a smile for longer than a few seconds. Not one to be ignored, Oikawa tried stepping it up. But, alas, his acts either drive Iwaizumi to tears, or get no reaction or attention whatsoever.

Iwaizumi passes through him and stomps up the stairs, the frustrated snorts and hitched whines are enough for Oikawa to realise that he’s holding back tears.

“Oh, no, Iwa… What happened this time…”

But Iwaizumi doesn’t stop at the wreath of flowers on his study desk where he throws his bag, doesn’t laugh at the concealer smiley-face drawn on his bathroom mirror, no. Staring past the pale brown streaks, Iwaizumi grabs his hair hard and _pulls_ , cheeks losing their red and eyes ceasing to flow tears freely. They stand there, Oikawa inspecting Iwaizumi’s still frame with a nervous, flickering watch- Iwaizumi’s locked and cold gaze, trying to fake himself out in the mirror. Something is whispered and lost beneath the one hammering heartbeat in the room, and before he comprehends what’s happening, Iwaizumi is reaching for a bottle of pills on the bathroom counter. Oikawa swipes them away from the quivering hand. With a growl, Iwaizumi dives after them- like a cat playing with a mouse, Oikawa throws the bottle across the bedroom, cringing at the rattling as they burst out of the bottle and skitter down the stairs.

It _finally_ clicks, just _what_ the hell is going on- is going through Iwaizumi’s head- is going to happen if he doesn’t stop him.

He senses no effort at all to slam the bathroom door on his face and hold the lock, leaving Iwaizumi slamming against it, thumping his fists on the wood and screaming at the spirit in his house.

Oikawa grimaces, his neck red-hot and burning as he picks up each pill one by one, replacing them in their bottle, giving the closed capsule a good shake before hurling it in the bin.

 

  * ••••



 

For the thousandth time, Iwaizumi’s phone dings. It’s met with a disgusted groan- from both boys –and on instinct, the duvet is pulled over Iwaizumi’s head. The boy relaxes instantly; his own hands happily nestled under his stomach to keep warm in the freezing living room.

Iwaizumi’s phone is an interesting one- especially since he gave the number to ‘ _them_ ’, ‘ _those fuckers, stop spamming me with memes_ ’, whoever they may be; Oikawa can take a guess, given Iwaizumi’s school and dark-secret love for volleyball. He’s either glued to the damn thing, talking to his mother and writing to-do lists in the Reminders, or he’s throwing it somewhere and leaving it to die, not bothering to put it on silent. Although he’d made a habit of silencing and plugging in the device, Oikawa has given up on it. He’s enticed by the idea of dropping it out the bedroom window, but that might make Iwaizumi sadder. Plus, it’d cost _money_ , which is something Iwaizumi and his mother literally _can’t_ afford to throw around.

“A ghost tucking me in.” He’s face down in the pillows of what Oikawa has deemed the _fluffiest_ couch on the planet, but his voice carries, deep and tired through the fabric. “Love it.”

A thumbs-up pokes out from under the blanket, and Oikawa can’t help but huff and smile.

“You’re a sharp one, Iwa-chan. Want some snacks?”

Even though Oikawa knows full well that Iwaizumi can’t hear him, he knows the boy well enough by now to foretell his wishes. It’s kinda _great_ , being able to have these quasi-conversations with a living person- a person, anyone, _anything_ , at long last –and to feel a connection to something in the physical world that doesn’t entirely remind him of his own passing.

“… Could I get some food, too?”

“Ah, I know you too well.” Oikawa drifts to the kitchen, pulling cupboards open, confused as to where he’d stored the dry goods this week. “I know I only do this when you’re holed up in bed, hurt and… Well, I don’t care- couch, bed, same difference… Where the fuck did I… Hm…” He’s lost track f his own schedule. Not that he feels bad about it. It’s not like someone can get on his back for being disorganized, he’s _dead_.

That doesn’t stop Iwaizumi- and Oikawa _loves it_.

“What, forgot where you put ‘em, this week? Stupid spirit.” Comes a weak, humored call from the lounge room.

“Aren’t you supposed to be disassociating or sobbing or something?” He snorts, giving up and making every door and drawer fly open at once. “Aha! Found ‘em.”

“Did you just- I _swear_ , if you break something-”

“You’ll _what_?” Gathering as many packets as he can, Oikawa sends them flying in to the living room. He dumps them all at once, burying a laughing Iwaizumi. “I’m _dead_. You can’t do _shit_.”

_And I don’t regret it…_

“Point made, point made- I won’t threaten you again, I get it! Can’t kill what’s dead, now leave me be to rot!”

“And don’t forget to drink water! You have mail to get, too! Oh- I have an idea, oh- _oh,_ I’m a genius,” Waving his hands at Iwaizumi, as if it’d make him more willing than he already is to stay on the soft couch- as if he could _see_ them, “Wait _right here_ , Iwa-chan, I’ll be- right back- need these, too!” He swipes away the mound of junk food, receiving no harsher protest than a long, drawn-out whine.

He grabs the first blankets he spots in the linen cupboard, floating them to the kitchen and wrapping them around the snacks, collecting a few drink bottles from the fridge in to the mix. The lot is sent out the back door and lain out under the swing, shaded by the cherry tree, a biting autumn wind lifting the edges of the blanket.

“That’ll do…” He hums, weighing the corners down with stones. “Now, to get the wolf out of the den…”

Lo and behold, Iwaizumi answers the door when Oikawa knocks at it. It’s answered on the twentieth or thirtieth knock but, arguably, his knocks are incessant and somehow grow louder every time.

“Fuck, if this is the damn ghost I’m gonna- _whoa_!” Oikawa slams him out of the house in his pajamas, closing the door and locking it, whooping in triumph.

“Get some sun, fucker!!”

Iwaizumi curses with every step as he jogs, going through the side gate to get to the back of the house- Oikawa thought of that too, locking all the windows and latching the folding door in place. After a few seconds of angrily rattling the back door, Iwaizumi turns around to face the backyard and thumps his head dramatically against the wooden doorframe.

“You locked me out of my own house?”

“My house, first and first-of-all. Second: _my_ house, idiot- third of all, yes. Now sit under the tree and _chill_.” To get Iwaizumi’s attention on the picnic, he kicks around some boxes of frosted cereal. Lured away from the patio to investigate to picnic, Iwaizumi edges through the long grass. Stopping to bend over and itch his ankles where the grass surrounds them, the oh-so-tempting position for Oikawa to just _bowl_ Iwaizumi ass-over-head is too high. A rough shove of force is enough to topple him and send him rolling on to the blanket, crushing a few packets of chips.

Surprisingly to Oikawa, Iwaizumi bursts out laughing, spreads his arms and legs out and carves wings in to the rubbish around him, eyes squinting up at the browning leaves, ready to fall and blanket the yard in their sunset colours.

_Well now I can’t regret it…_

It’s hard to _not_ focus on how beautiful this blue, dead-inside boy looks; bumping the swing away with his foot and catching it between his calves with a chuckle when it rocks back, ripping open a box at random and shoving a handful of crunchy junk food in his mouth. It’s getting harder and harder to ignore this boy, tougher and tougher to ignore the fact that he no longer belongs to this world, that he never has- and now never will get the chance to try. Hate struggles to grow towards Iwaizumi the way it had flourished towards every other prior tenant, for Iwaizumi is the only one capable of capturing him so completely in his every similarity and stark difference, of bringing about such feelings in Oikawa- such feelings he lost touch with, months before he…

_I don’t regret that, I don’t._

Iwaizumi’s laughter has dimmed. Oikawa looks up from the ground, partly out of worry, partly ready to smother the boy in food and force them both to ignore their reality: he lays, silent, a soft smile on his face, one hand rubbing through his hair, the other picking at the timber of the swing’s seat. He’ll let go of it, trap it in his fingers, let it go, let it come back, let it go, and Oikawa starts to get dizzy as he realizes that he’d never allowed himself to enjoy such simple things. . It’s _just_ another difference between him and the boy living in his house, just that and nothing more, Oikawa tells himself.

The feeling of something rough under his fingers, the shape of sunlight as it filters through leaves, his own hair- soft and wavy –over a warm head, a warm body, a warm soul and heart. So simple, so small in comparison. And yet…

_I didn’t think I’d regret it…_

Anything would be better than how he is now.

_… I never knew ever come to regret it…_

Iwaizumi smiles some more, whispers to the leaves.

“… This isn’t so bad…”

 

  * ••••



 

The picnics have become a regular albeit reluctant occurrence on Sundays. His ghost always finds new ways to get him outside- and keep him there, once Iwaizumi learns to keep his keys not only _on_ him, but _chained_ to his wrist at all times.

Four weeks later and he’s caught in the same predicament of being locked outside in his bedclothes with a mountain of food under a beautifully gnarled, leafless tree. Everything’s the same save for the changing scenery. That is, until an ancient-looking volleyball is rolled through the dying grass in his direction. He stares the ball down, his hand reaching out to brush it, roll it about on the ground.

"This isn’t mine… So… You must’ve played volleyball too...? Yeah?"

He gets up, looks around and shrugs. It’s a leap of a conclusion, however Iwaizumi’s been wrong before. He’s sure he can handle misjudging a ghost. Scooping the ball up and bouncing it twice to test its weight, he throws it in the air and serves it sloppily towards the back fence. Unthinkingly, he holds his breath and waits for something to happen as the ball falls closer and closer to the garden bed.

It is received a meter or so off the ground by some invisible energy and sent back to him. Forgoing any processing of what just happened, as he’s been doing thus far with the house and spirit overall, he passes the ball up in a wobbly arc. A familiar, more solid thud is heard and the ball comes back in a perfect arc, a flawless set.

“Setter?” He passes the ball again and makes a motion to run up- he does, spiking without hesitance as the ball comes flying in front of him. It slams to the ground, bouncing a little way away. Iwaizumi chases it and picks it up, whipping his head about to check the fences. No intrusive neighbors in sight, he nearly groans with relief. That’s the _very_ last thing he wants or needs: attention on a weekend. “Hm, you’re definitely a setter… That probably looked fucking weird, heh...”

Trudging over to where the ball was set from, he inspects the ground and surroundings. Not a twig broken or dead flower out of place, no fresh footprints in the dried, crackling blades of grass other than his own.

“… Not that it matters… I guess you’re lonely, huh?” His hand brushes over a few stalks of plants he doesn’t know the names of, absently picking at the withered up seed pods on the end, hoping that the spirit does actually listen to him and doesn’t solely exist to mess with him. “I heard this place couldn’t be kept down longer than a month… I wonder what you must think of me-”

The ball is snatched from under his arm and floated up out of his reach, promptly tossed in through the now-open folding door with a will.

Iwaizumi sighs and goes to get it, closing the door behind him.

 

  * ••••



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote that second-last bit listening to ‘Once Upon A Time’ from the Undertale soundtrack and let me tell you … AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA . that’s all bye


	3. Is It The Same For You?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \o/ sup my guys ! thats to everyone who has read or left kudos on this <3 you're hella my fella  
> who's ready 4 sum soft angst - this one right here heya  
> one more ch to go ! hope u enjoy this one

  * ••••



 

Iwaizumi cringes at the pair of footsteps fast-approaching.

He doesn’t even have to look over his shoulder to know who it is- who they are.

“Can you _not_ ,” He groans, rolling his eyes, “This is the _only_ time outside the house I get to myself. Fuck _off_.”

“On the contrary, dear Iwaizumi!” Matsukawa cries as he draws even to his left, Hanamaki flanking him on the other side in time to block him from running away. “We’ve overheard a plan to beat you up after school, near the shop, and we- well, we _stopped_ them, let’s leave it lightly-put, hm?”

“ _Please_ tell me you didn’t fight them-”

“Oh, _no_ , who do you think we are?! We would _never_ fight a group of bullies on our _own_! Haha! We had some of the second years help, those three starter first years, too. Kageyama’s great at it when he gets fired up, once we told him how much those assholes have been-”

“And _thank you_ for your concern, but I don’t need it. I need it as much as I need to join the-”

“But you _should_ join the volleyball team!”

“No!”

“You _have to_!!”

“No, I don’t!”

“Please?!”

“No means no, I don’t wanna join your fucking club!”

“We insist on walking you home, at least.”

“Oh, so you’ll know where I live and come bother me on my weekends? Not fucking likely.”

“How about… We walk you home _just_ to piss you off- ah, not with that face, hear me out- and we keep doing it until you agree to join us. Then, we will walk you home and _not_ piss you off. Sound like a deal?”

“How about you don’t walk me at home?”

“We love you too much, Iwaizumi!! It’s too late for you!”

“No, _never_. Leave me alone.” Iwaizumi still refuses, but at least their tension is eased- his smile comes slightly more naturally, twisting to a scowl when the two boys think they’re subtle high-fiving behind his back.

It’s kind of like they’re friends, walking along the street and bickering, comparing test results and thoughts on teachers, Matsukawa bragging about Hanamaki’s mother’s cooking, which leads to Iwaizumi claiming he could out-do her in pancakes any day. He surprises himself by how much he relishes in the company, the noise, the laughter and the back-and-forth between the childhood friends. Iwaizumi’s never felt this close to strangers since what feels like forever, even if their conversation skips over him more often than not, their running dialogue more for show when they realise Iwaizumi’s not much of a talker.

“Nah,” Hanamaki thumbs his chin, thinking hard for a moment on their current topic. A few moments of quiet steps on tarmac- then, he gasps loudly and snaps his fingers. “Kyotani strikes me as more of a bacon-maple syrup pancake dude.”

“Yeah, me too, Hanamaki-”

“Ugh, call me Makki, how many times have I told you?”

_I hardly know you…_

“Aw, Makki, let the lil’ guy get his head around having _friends_ first-”

“Oi!”

“Look, Mattsun, you ruined out perfectly good debate and pissed him off! Go away, you’re scaring the little dude!”

“I’m _not_ little!!” Iwaizumi strains, ignoring the twin smirks.

“Yeah, Mattsun, he’s not little! Iwaizumi is a big boy who likes chocolate chips in his pancakes!”

“Fuck off, Makki.”

_And yet… I hardly know you, and yet…_

“Ayo!!! I won- he used my nickname first- that makes me dad!”

“I’ve always wanted to be a mother!!” Matsukawa cries, clutching his chest and falling to his knees. Laughing at him, Hanamaki kicks him in the chest and sends him tumbling backwards onto his bag.

“Ouch no fair!”

“I may be shorter than both of you, but I could beat your asses _any_ day.”

_… And yet why do I feel so comfortable?_

“Put some more bulk on and then we’ll talk, Iwa.” Matsukawa chuckles, taking his friends hand when is comes down to him and tugs him roughly up on to his feet. They continue down the street, Iwaizumi steering them around a corner onto his road.

“I’ll admit… He’s faster than all of us.”

Iwaizumi flushes at the compliment, sparing Hanamaki a kind smile. The one he sees on Matsukawa’s face, though, horrifies him.

He’s just about to butt in to the boy’s thoughts and stop him before he says anything terrible-

“Oi-”

“Iwai _zoom_ i.”

The three fall silent.

Beside him, Hanamaki’s shoulders start shaking. Keeping his stare resolutely ahead, Iwaizumi ignores the loud breathing that indicates they’re all five seconds from losing their shit.

“Do _not_.”

“Wind him up…” Hanamaki whispers, still miraculously containing the laughter that is now shaking his whole body, faltering his footsteps.

Matsukawa lets out a particularly loud snort, slapping a hand over his mouth and pinching his nose. Although muffled, his turn is loud and clear.

“And watch him go-”

“Zoom, zoom, _zoom_ -” Hanamaki is practically gasping.

“Straight to the _moon_ -” Matsukawa’s response rises in pitch with every word, and he uncovers his mouth in time to shout alongside Hanamaki: “Iwai- _zoooooom_ -i!!!”

And _that’s it_ \- the pair tumble against each other, cheeks red and wet. Iwaizumi stops and sits in the gutter, clutching his stomach, laughing like a dam has broken in his brain and all the months lacking laughter are trying to be made up for.

A full minute passes as they all fight to calm down, but then Hanamaki whispers ‘zoom’ and they’re lost causes for a further five. Eventually, they stumble to Iwaizumi and help him out of the gutter; Hanamaki picks their conversation up easily, although he and Matsukawa still lean in to one another for support, not entirely trusting of their legs.

“Even though the kid downs salted caramel mocha like there’s no tomorrow… We’ve established that Kunimi is the marshmallow of the group even though he’s an emo fuck-”

“True-” comes the resounding answer from the other two.

“So he’s, what, like marshmallows in his? What goes with marshmallows?”

“Salted caramel sauce?”

“Mattsun, you are good for something!”

“Dude. Cold.”

“If we’re going off personality,” Iwaizumi hums, “Kindaichi would have strawberries?”

“Nah, that kid is _cinnamon_ ,” Matsukawa states, dead serious, “And pancakes are pretty average with cinnamon in them. How about… What’s his favorite-”

“Corn-” Hanamaki starts, Iwaizumi quick to overtake him.

“ _Shallots_!!”

“Yes!!” Crows Matsukawa. “Genius! Okay, so you’d make an omelets for him because he’s a human-shaped onion.”

“Who’re we missing, now?”

“… Kageyama?”

“Oh… Right. Our good-ol’ baby boy.”

“He’d never eat pancakes, he’d rather drink milk.”

“Or dunk them in milk.”

“He’s so beautiful.” Hanamaki sighs, pretending to wipe tears from under his eyes. “I love our son.”

“He’s not your-”

“He’s _my child fuck off_.”

“Makki is a protective mother, dude,” Matsukawa stage-whispers to Iwaizumi, “I suggest you back down now.”

“Tobio is my _son_ and I will protect and love him with all costs.”

“We get it, doofus.” Matsukawa grumbles. He bumps in to Hanamaki hard enough to jolt Iwaizumi at the other end of their three-person line. As Hanamaki nudges back, it’s at a quarter of the strength, accompanied by a rare, soft smile. It’s almost sad. Iwaizumi frowns at them for a moment, rolling his eyes when they get lost looking at each other.

_Probably another dumb prank…_

“I still wouldn’t make the fucker pancakes, though. You’re his mum, make them yourself.”

“ _Brutal_ , Iwaizumi!” They’re dragged out of their trance. Despite his ferocity moments before, Hanamaki is giggling.

“If you _were_ to make our precious little setter-prodigy some pancakes, what would _you_ put in them, oh wise _Zoomi_ , grand master of the Cake of Pan?”

Matsukawa snorts half the milk out of his nose at the nickname’s resurrection, hacking and coughing at the burn. Sighing, Hanamaki pats his back as if in consolation, so Iwaizumi figures it’s a frequent occurrence and lets it- and the terrible nickname –slide. He stuffs his hand in the front picket of his bag to check for his keys when the front of his letterbox comes in view.

“He’d have blueberries, _obviously_ … Ah… This is me...” He announces, indicating to the little house and the over-grown front yard. Once no jabs or quick, witty responses come, he looks away from his house, back at the pair. Hanamaki and Matsukawa have frozen up. Iwaizumi sees it multiply when they realise he’s looking, trying to brush it off as the other two do.

“Aha, yeah- nice- nice house, damn, and- and you live here alone, huh? That’s pretty cool-”

“Yes, definitely, very cool, it’s a nice house, yeah? Must be cool to live by yourself-”

“Hm, I agree, super cool. It’s a- you like living there, yeah?”

Together, they ramble and overtake one another’s sentences in a style very unlike their usual conjoined banter. Gone are their jovial tweaks and playfulness, replaced by a disturbing flatness unbefitting to either of their personalities. Purely as a reflex, Iwaizumi masks his anxiety with innocent confusion: a tactic he pulls first on bullies to gauge his situation and buy himself time to figure out how to get out of there. Ultimately, it makes him sick in his stomach; having to use this method of talking to these two, _now_ , after he felt like they were beginning to get along.

He hopes he’s good enough of an actor to pull it off without them seeing through it, even hopes that they’re too distracted by their own thoughts to notice. It’s never been that way with his school-ground tormenters- their intent is always on the victim, never on themselves or how they look at them time.

Now Iwaizumi _really_ feels like throwing up.

“… Yeah? It… It gets kinda lonely, sometimes, but it’s better than sharing it with some stranger-”

“Ah, yeah, definitely- well, we gotta go!” Hanamaki’s yelling, slapping Matsukawa hard on the back and leading him down the street.

Matsukawa’s voice is a little strangled, his back turned so Iwaizumi can’t see whether it’s amusement, disappointment, or whatever else could be choking him up.

“Yeah, yeah! See you at school tomorrow Iwaizumi!”

“… See you later.”

When Iwaizumi drags himself inside, leaning against the closed door, heaving a sigh, it’s to an empty, laughter-less house.

“Did you see that?” He calls out, crouching to untie his shoelaces. “People willing to talk to _me_. What the hell, huh? Hey… No pranks today? Could it be that you’re happy, too?”

The house stays silent, nothing moves except his own breath in the cold entryway.

 

  * ••••



 

Sticking to their promise- and to him, in an irritatingly endearing way –Matsukawa and Hanamaki walk Iwaizumi home every afternoon for that week, keeping their streak up in to the one after. He brings them to the curb, sometimes to the gate, and they always refuse to go inside.

 _On the flipside of corporeal interaction_ , Iwaizumi thinks with bitter humor, _I haven’t gotten anything from the ghost…_ This missing detail, this lack of a constant in his own home, is a bit concerning. _If you were happy, seeing those two with me, you’d have done something… So what’s wrong?_

So, Iwaizumi starts doing stupid shit to get the ghost’s attention.

Obviously.

_Why? Why, you ask?_

_Because I’m an idiot who somehow made friends with the ghost haunting my house._

_Keep up._

Stubbing his toes on furniture, singing obnoxiously loudly and horribly out-of-key in the shower, watching bizarre TV shows, staying up until four in the morning reading books, messing up math homework- fixing them in school so he doesn’t fail quizzes –and kicking the worn volleyball like a soccer ball in the backyard, cooking and baking and fucking it all up horrendously on purpose. All are proven ineffectual, a waste of time, effort, and energy. Furthermore, every single one of his toes hurt. He can _feel_ them. All of them. He never knew he could feel all ten toes at once, but here he is, lying on the couch with one icepack on each foot, feeling like a dickhead.

That last idea of _cooking_ is flawed in so many ways, and although he hoped it would prove to be most affective, nothing is gained other than decent meals. One dish he’s _sure_ he ruined with all that salt. However, when he tastes it, it’s _amazing_. Ready to congratulate himself for pulling the ghost back out of hiding by making it want to save his failure, he reads over the packet and sees that his fuckup was actually a recommendation. Another dish, he narrates loudly that everything he’s putting in the muffin mix is _perfect_ , and- mysteriously –nothing goes wrong; by supernatural intervention _or_ his natural clumsiness.

He can’t bring himself to eat the cloudberry-choc-chip-liquorish-caramel muffins, so he takes them to Matsukawa and Hanamaki the next day, waiting for them in front of the gym, a little before afternoon practice is due to start. A no less fitting scene for the proposal. The muffin basket he gives them is, he says, a peace offering. In return of taking the basket off his hands, he’ll join their volleyball team.

Practice is nearly cancelled, the third year’s excitement interrupting warm-up, a good half-hour spent talking to Iwaizumi, introducing him to everyone, the weird and broken family of players who accept him without question.

He goes home that night unafraid in the dark- every one of his aggressors would be in their homes at this time, there’s no reason to fear attack. Not that _anyone_ would dare mess with the white-aqua pack of Aoba Johsai boys, anyway: crowded around their newest member, bustling with energy, and raucous, splitting the peaceful, quiet night.

The house doesn’t seem empty any longer the more he thinks about his sudden change of paths, forgetting all about the lack of the spirit and it’s weird, weirdly comforting hauntings.

 

  * ••••



 

They force him to set up a net in his yard and practice his _‘abysmal, truly, how long has it been, Iwaizumi? It’s actually kinda funny if you consider you haven’t played because of mental health, but still, lol’_ serves.

“Thanks, Makki… For that _wonderful_ flattery…” He grunts, securing the second support for the net into the dirt, standing back to make sure the net, when it goes up, won’t be in the way of the cherry tree by the time spring comes.

By the time the net is up, he’s not even thinking about the ghost, starting up drills he was given by the couch and his fellow third year teammates. Once he’s warmed up, he practices serves for an hour, moving on to use the wall on the side of the house for receive and spike practices.

Eventually, he goes in to make dinner. He doesn’t remember until he’s sitting down eating that the ghost never turned up.

His mum calls him- but despite all they talk about, for once he really _feels_ alone in his own home.

 

  * ••••



 

“Thank you for having us!”

“Please, come in- make yourselves at h-”

“Your shirt is awesome.” Kyotani rumbles, his usual grumpy, unimpressed tone alleviated and lightened, though only marginally. Iwaizumi takes it as a good sign. Yahaba moves to scold him for interrupting, stopping short when he sees the sparkle in Kyotani’s eyes.

“Thanks!” Iwaizumi runs a hand over his front smoothing out the dog-print shirt, giving Kyotani a small grin, stepping aside to invite the two second-years further in to his home. “Do you have a dog, Kyotani?”

“A… A few…”

“That’s cool- I don’t think I could afford to own one, but I love dogs.”

“Me too,” It’s the first time Iwaizumi has ever seen the boy smile, “Maybe you could come over sometime and meet them? Or I could bring them here, next time.”

“I’d love that!”

“Bad idea, Iwaizumi.” Yahaba laughs. Dense he may seem, but Iwaizumi doesn’t miss the way his arm snakes around Kyotani’s back, pulling him against his side in what Iwaizumi assumes is a comforting movement. “He says ‘a few’- it’s eight. He has _eight_ dogs.”

“Even _better_.” And fuck does Iwaizumi love fuelling Kyotani’s grin- the bigger it gets, the happier and more relaxed Yahaba is. They start moving through the house, Iwaizumi directing them to the back door. “Dogs are the best- you’re welcome here any time, with or without them.”

“Thank you…”

“Wow! You’re backyard is _great_ \- right, Kyotani?” Yahaba races out the door and runs a hand along the new net, plucking the volleyball out of the bush where Iwaizumi left it last night.

“So much grass… And open space... Good for dogs.” He’s still very much in his shell, and Iwaizumi knows it’ll take time to crack him out of it- but for now, he’s as glad as Yahaba is elated that Kyotani is talking so freely to him.

“Your backyard isn’t?”

“He lives in an apartment complex.”

“With _eight dogs_?”

“Ground floor, so it isn’t as bad as it sounds,” Yahaba goes on, a cheesy smirk pulling at his lips. He’s elbowing Kyotani roughly when he continues, “The _smell_ , though- the _dogs_ are fine, but in a small room, Kentarou-”

“ _Ha_ \- h-hey, _don’t_ call me that!” Kyotani shoves Yahaba back, grabbing the volleyball out of his hold and dodging out of his reach, circling around Iwaizumi to use him as a shield. By the time Yahaba’s picked himself up and turned to face them with a leer too ecstatic to be ill meant, Iwaizumi has his arms spread to defend Kyotani, the pair of them grinning.

“Oh, you’re so on!”

Yahaba lunges at Iwaizumi, going for his stomach to tackle him down.

“Hey, hey! _He_ has the ball, not me!”

“But you’re in my way! I have to take you down first!”

“Try it, I’m _way_ stronger than you!”

“I’m taller than you!”

“Yeah, by a centimeter!!”

“You’re talking _shit_!” With a cry, Yahaba hooks his leg around one of Iwaizumi’s and trips him up, diving over for Kyotani- who _shrieks_ , who _giggles_ , and takes off sprinting through the garden, kicking up grass seeds and autumn leaves. Yahaba wastes no time giving chase. “Come here, Kyotani!! Gimmie the ball! As your setter, I _command_ you!”

“You can’t make me do _anything_!” Kyotani cackles, passing the ball hand and fast to Iwaizumi, who’s up on his feet and poised to run.

“Two against one, this is so unfair!”

Iwaizumi and Kyotani ignore his objections, continuing to run laps of the yard, leading Yahaba on and throwing the ball to one another, keeping the boy in the middle moving relentlessly.

“This is such a good stamina drill! We should introduce this to the team!”

“Ew, Iwaizumi, you sound like Makki!”

“That was _not_ a compliment, Yahaba!”

“It wasn’t supposed to be!!”

Yahaba runs out of effort, opting to stand in the center under the large cherry and wait for his teammates to get the hint. “Should we start practicing now, or?”

“Stretching, first.”

“You’re really making this like a proper training session.”

“Stretching is important, Yahaba, now shut up and count.”

“I can’t count if you tell me to shut up.”

“You know what I meant!”

Their stretches are half-hearted and interjected with little arguments and comments, always playful and light, always welcome and bringing a smile to Iwaizumi’s face.

_This is what it’s like to have friends… This is what I‘ve been missing out on… For so long…_

They chat back and forth around receive and passing drills, bumping the ball between them and discussing their team. Their first-years settling and finding their places, the non-starter second years and the incident a few days ago, and Yahaba goes on a spiel about his friend, Watari- the libero. While rare, Kyotani adds in with nods and hums, the occasional correction that Yahaba expands on. When Iwaizumi notices that they’re steering clear of talking about the third years, he casually brings up their thoughts for next year- the current starter setter being Hanamaki, he’s sure that Yahaba will mention it.

“Hm… Kyo will definitely be our Ace…” Iwaizumi chuckles at Kyotani’s reaction to the pet name- it’s almost worse than Yahaba using his first name; going mute and beet-red, fiddling his fingers when the ball isn’t near him. “And Watari is gonna be the best defense in the prefecture, now that that damn Nishinoya Yuu isn’t back in the game... Kindaichi, obviously, will be one heck of a guy- especially with those two old teammates backing him... We’re… Still not sure about setters, though. Makki is still a much better setter than me. And- although he’s taking his time to get back in to it, Kageyama’s _really_ building himself up. He’ll be the official setter next year, for sure- it’s awesome to see... Kinda sucks, though. Guess you can’t overcome raw instinct so easily, no matter how hard you polish your talent.”

“Makki’s only been doing it since the start of high school, right? You’ve got more experience than both of them, maybe this next competition, you’ll-”

“ _Setting_ \- he’s…” Yahaba misses the ball when it comes, sliding his hands over his face before apologizing and chasing after it. “Makki has been playing volleyball since middle school, probably even before... We’re not really on even grounds for experience. He’s still a year ahead of me. But, I’ve been playing as a setter for longer.” He joins Iwaizumi and Kyotani, tossing the ball up and over to the latter.

“… He changed his position in high school?” Iwaizumi asks after a few rounds of receives.

“I know… It’s weird, right?” At Yahaba’s words Kyotani fumbles, this time, and he nods once at Yahaba before searching for the ball in the hedges. “There’s… Iwaizumi, there’s something… There’s _certainly_ something about those two that we- we just can’t get out of them. I don’t… I don’t know if it makes us want to question them, or follow them more…”

“… What do you think it is?”

“I dunno. That’s… That’s the thing. None of us underclassmen do, _except_ for Kageyama, and- and, well… You know him. Tight-lipped and shut-off, to everyone but Mattsun.”

“Volleyball.” Kyotani holds out said object to Iwaizumi.

“Thanks, K-”

“No…” It’s quieter than before, Kyotani shaking his head, mumbling almost inaudibly. “It’s related to volleyball… That much, I know… Tobio told me…” Iwaizumi hates this change of mood, a sudden somber wash over the brightness and carefree atmosphere of his company.

 _His_ _friends_.

“What? You- you talked to him about… It makes sense, though… It did make Makki change… And, Kageyama was apparently a really silent and scary kid in middle school in terms of volleyball- and of being a setter, of course… And now that he’s…”

“Let’s not agonize over it, Yahaba.” For once feeling like a true high school senior, Iwaizumi takes the ball from Kyotani and pats Yahaba on the back, startling him out of his thoughts. “Leave it to Mattsun and Makki to tell us, if they want. It doesn’t affect the team too much, and everyone is entitled to a private life- even in your shit-fight of a team-”

“ _Hey_ , it’s _your_ team too, now!”

“And, as an elder in _our_ team, I say we move on to something more fun! I need to practice serves and blocks, so-”

“Okay! Come on, Kyotani, you spike for me!”

 

They only manage to sit still for five minutes over hastily put-together curry, eager to get back to practicing and messing around in the backyard. It gets to eleven at night before an elderly neighbor starts shouting out of his window to shut down their antics, the three apologizing profusely, cackling once they shut the door on the backyard.

After seeing them out, making Kyotani promise to bring his dogs next time, Iwaizumi returns to the kitchen and is greeted by sight of their dishes washed and neatly stacked before the sink, fresh flowers lacing the windowsill.

He may or may not do a happy dance and cheer in his dim-lit, shitty kitchen that’s starting to fall apart, floorboards coming loose. It may be the happiest he’s been all day.

 

  * ••••



 

He’s practicing volleyball receives and the bruises are _hurting_ \- he’d been beaten up at lunch while on his mission to buy Kageyama a milk carton. Thankfully, it didn’t get too bad, for Matsukawa noticed his absence in their lunch circle and came to find him.

As he gets bored of hitting his injuries over and over, he moves on to pinpoint serves without really thinking about it. His progress has been picking up fantastically, apparently, as all the old information and muscle memory regains itself, re-embeds into his actions, his skin, his bones. It’s weird to be so upbeat on the court, to have his heart pounding in exhilaration rather than anxiousness. His spikes, of course, are some of the strongest- his strongest point of his game –and that alone is a confidence booster. Not to mention the constant praise he’s met with, the eager team more focused on their personal improvement as a group than ranking, somehow maintaining a powerhouse appearance despite having loose focus on the competition.

A perfectly aimed and very strong serve goes over, after a few flops and off-center hits as he continues to warm up to the movement.

Instead of hitting down on the court where he expects, it is deflected into the air and pushed back over to his side of the net. He freezes for a few seconds, speechless, and then races to pick up the ball.

Just as he reaches for it, the volleyball is whisked out of his reach and carried to the back line on the opposite side of the net.

The ball is spun in mid-air, chest-height, the familiar _whir_ of the ball’s spin perking him up, enlivening him from the dull repeat of solo practice.

"That’s how its gonna be huh? You want a competition? Hah," He watches the ball get thrown up, “Jump serve? Bring it on, precious little _setter_ -”

The served ball slams down to his left, bulleting past his elbow, landing in court and flying on.

“… Holy _shit_!”

Carried back by invisible hands, the next one comes, and this time it’s a little less forceful. “Don’t go easy _now_ , you asshole.”

Iwaizumi receives it well- sees the net lift a little in what he guesses is supposed to be an indication that he’s not alone on his side of the court –and the ball is tossed high towards the right side of the net. His feet move before his brain can catch up, running for it, jumping, and spiking it down.

“You sure _are_ a setter, huh. That’s… Could- do you think you could… Help me with my spikes? I’m… I’m no Ace, but- but I’m definitely better at attack than defense… But- hah, you- you probably noticed…” He shrugs to himself and looks around at the empty yard. Unable to think of what else to do, he drops the ball and kicks it a little away. It’s picked up, carried to a spot near the net, and chucked back at him. “R-r-right, okay… Just- forgive me if- if I… If I don’t throw it _directly_ to you, I… I can’t exactly see you…”

Whatever spectral being it is, it digs an ‘X’ marker in the dirt, and Iwaizumi smiles in what he hopes is the spirit's position above it.

 

And if he listened hard enough, he would have heard the raspy giggles from Oikawa’s bruised throat: the first time in years for him to have a reason to really laugh.

 

  * ••••



 

Chewing on his pens is better than his fingers, Iwaizumi has learnt.

Mainly because every time he chews his fingertips, something gets hurled at his head- however, he guesses there are perks to long nails and extremities that don’t ache all the time. It’s stress-relief, keeping his jaw working as he does school work, so he’s made sure to keep a bunch of pens handy even though all he’ll be using tonight is his laptop. It’s not a good idea to bite your laptop’s case- phones are worse, he can’t reach the edge of his desk without hurting his back, the assignment paper he needs for references, and he’s not _allowed_ to bite the skin of his fingers, so. Pens it is, and he’s gnawed this one down to crackling. Plastic shards get brushed in to the bin off the side of his desk. Iwaizumi mutters a short thanks to the ghost, tapping away at the essay.

This ghost, Iwaizumi is also learning. And, in learning its capricious nature, he’s recognizing that the ghost keeps stealing the pens away as punishment for being up so late. He can keep the thing in check: he stares at his fingers and brings them to his mouth.

The pen comes soaring back.

It’s a great system.

 

"How did you end up here, though...” He asks in to the darkness of his room, taking a break from the bright screen, giving in and chatting to the ghost as he frequently does. “I… I never thought of an afterlife like this... Are there other ghosts around? Is it- it _must_ be pretty lonely, right? What do you… I don’t… Get it…"

His computer keys start clicking without him touching anything, and he whirls around to see an internet search open, words appearing in the box.

_‘kitagawa middle school death 2011’_

There are a few hits, some pictures of a brown-haired boy popping up along the left image bar. Iwaizumi takes the mouse, hovering it over one of them.

"... That’s you? That’s what you look like?"

 _‘yes’_ Is punched in to the search bar- Iwaizumi hits backspace and looks through the articles, scrolling down story after story, opening a few in new windows. They’re basic, small editorials and notices for memorial services, nothing personal or too in-depth. Mere mentioning and mourning of the ‘death’, a few social media links to associated places and people. The broken pen next to him starts hitting the table impatiently.

"Oikawa...” He mumbles, and something in the air electrifies, making the hair on the back of his neck prickle. “… Oikawa Tooru. That’s your name?"

Oikawa takes the liberty of opening a text document to the side of the webpages to respond.

‘ _yep..’_

He stares at the school profile picture, the one that must have been on Oikawa’s student ID in the year of his death. There are one or two of him on the volleyball court, sometimes in action, sometimes off to the side talking to other players on his team.

"Are you… Have you aged?"

‘ _dunno’_

"Alright... Cool." Iwaizumi double-takes when he sees someone with a mess of dark hair, their back to the camera, and a familiar face caught only just in frame, laughing along with Oikawa. "Ah, you knew Mattsun and Makki?"

_‘best friends since we were kids’_

"That’s probably why they didn’t want to come in the house, huh…"

_‘good job sherlock, figure that one out all by yourself?’_

"Haha, very funny. Here’s the guy who switches my furniture and puts salt in my tea."

_‘you love it (_ _´▽ `)b’_

"Ew, emojis- don’t tell me you’re that kind of a texter."

_‘(_ _ﾉ_ _◕_ _ヮ_ _◕)_ _ﾉ*:_ _･’ come on iwachan im a classy guy’_

"Iwa-ch- you _disgust_ me!!"

_‘shut up and do your essay’_

_‘shittyiwa!!’_

"Shittyiwa?! That’s terrible-"

_‘shittywaizumi’_

"Yeah yeah, stop nagging, _Shittykawa_ "

_‘NICE ONE’_

"Fuck off and let me study!!"

 

The next morning, he opens his phone and sees a new Reminder.

_‘do u mind if i talk to you iwachan?’_

Stuffing his mouth against the pillow to conceal the smile so wide it aches his cheeks, he cracks an eye open enough to check over his phone, to make sure he’s not imagining it.

“… What… Do I mind if… Oh, _oi_ , Oikawa! Did you really write this?” The handful of dead grass pattering against the window is an affirmative. “Shittykawa, get in here and stop sulking, of course you can talk to me. You don’t have to ask.”

Silence fills the room, Iwaizumi lying in his bed, waiting. Waiting. For what, he’s unsure.

Then, when he hears it, he knows it’s exactly the thing- it’s _just the thing_ he’s been waiting for.

“He… _Hey_. Uh- Iwaizumi, hi… Can you… Hear? Me?”

He doesn’t even try to hide his grin in the pillow, this time.

“… Hello, Oikawa.”

 

  * ••••



 

“Yo, Kyotani.”

“Iwaizumi.” Pausing by the gate, Kyotani waves at him as he jogs over. Kageyama is with the second-year, and Iwaizumi doesn’t know whether it’s fate, or whether it’s going to make this a _lot_ harder. “What’s up?”

“I… I need to talk to you about some things- do you mind if I walk with you two?”

Kageyama’s hand shakes when he points to himself, his eyes wide, face blank.

“You… Do y-you want me to- to go?”

“No- uh, you may actually, uh… Be able to help me. With this… I was going to ask Kyotani about… About Oikawa Tooru, but-” Kageyama’s head ducks at the name and his feet shift pace awkwardly, causing him to step a heel on the toe of his other foot and trip himself up. “But- _shit_ , are you alright?”

Kageyama doesn’t answer and when Iwaizumi crouches in front of the first year, he finds out why.

“Iwaizumi…” Kyotani mumbles, leaning down to help Kageyama back up; his face becomes more visible in the streetlights, scrunched up nose and wobbling chin, teeth clamped on his bottom lip. “Maybe that- that wasn’t very…”

“I’m- fuck, Kageyama, I’m so sorry- I knew you came from the same middle school, and the other day Kyotani told me- and- fuck, I didn’t mean to upset you so much…”

“When I told you about it… Being about volleyball,” Kyotani mumbles, taking his hands off of Kageyama when the boy makes a tiny shrugging motion, “And Kageyama knowing… Please understand that it’s still a sensitive subject…”

“Why…” Kageyama murmurs. One of his hands is using the sleeve of his jumper to wipe his nose, the fingers of his other one scratching at the skin of his thumb frantically, like it’s the only thing keeping him in check.

“… Why?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Kageyama…” He wants to reach out, stop the boy from wearing at his own skin, the skin of his treasurable hands that send such great tosses. The sheen of new, peeled back flesh is already shining at his well-kept fingernail’s rubbing. “I- uh, the place I’m living, it’s his… It’s his old house…”

“… Well, I-I- uh, I didn’t…” Kageyama pauses for a long time, even stopping his grating fingernails, and Iwaizumi is happy to wait him out.

His eyes are still brimming with tears, his breath unchanging its haggard rate, his hands never ceasing to shake. “He… Oikawa was just my… My senior… In… In middle school… That’s- that was all, I didn’t- if… If you want to ask someone, Matsukawa- he… He knew Oikawa… He was his friend… He and Makki- I’m… I’m s-sorry I’m no help…”

“It’s okay, Kageyama.” He hesitates to pat the by on the back. Thankfully, Kyotani beats him to it. “Please, go home and get some rest, okay?”

“Okay…”

He sends Kyotani and Kageyama off down the street, hearing Kyotani ask Kageyama _‘want me to get Yahaba?’_ , smiling ruefully at Kageyama’s meek little _‘yes please_ ’.

 

  * ••••



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so in case I fucked up in ch 1 or 2:  
>  iwa is a scrawny shit because he’s been unhealthy for the past few years, noya and asahi never rejoined karasuno bc oikawa was never there to challenge them/hinata never had kags and therefore there was no ~explosive improvement~   
> and kageyama is in aoba johsai bc mattsun/makki made him promise to come join them in their third year again, but more will come about our fave blueb soon  
> and yes daichi [and suga] is in the captains skype group along with makki and mattsun, ushijima [he just g o e s with or without oikawa], kuroo and the other Tokyo hooligans


	4. Hands, All Covered In Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaa the end my fellas , hope you liked it \o/

  * ••••



 

“So can I see you in mirrors?”

“I watch you shower and brush your teeth and wipe your butt whenever you can be assed to, don’t you think you would’ve noticed by now?”

“Right, right- wait, you watch me shower?!?” The cheery, high-pitched giggle fills Iwaizumi’s heart. He made a ghost laugh. _He_ , pointless, worthless little Iwaizumi, made a dead boy _giggle_. “Hm- what about... If I threw flour everywhere, would your shape appear?”

“ _Ahaha_!! Please- _please_ try it!”

“I’ll take that as a no…”

“Ah... No, I am not physical in any way, Iwa-chan. I _can_ interact with the gravity of objects, but I myself can never touch them.”

“That... That sucks.

“Yeah, I guess- _then again_ , I am _very_ clever and strong- I’m so _different_ to you, weak little human Iwa-chan. I’ve taught myself to do great feats, ones I believe other ghosts would not be able to manage!”

“There’s the narcissist I know and hate!”

“ _Iwaaa_!”Oikawa whines, and Iwaizumi has to catch his hand before it clutches his chest, over his aching heart at the adorable moan. “That was _mean_!! I am _not_ a narcissist! I’m just great!”

“Oh my gosh. And he uses humor to cover up sadness. He must be _very_ great.”

“ _Sarcasm_? And coming from the boy who tells his mother he’s fine. Oh, no _mama_ , this is a ice-cream packet, not an icepack-”

“Hey, fuck off-”

“I’m just saying! If you’re gonna hook in to me, be prepared for a bite back- I know about you and you know zero about me!”

Iwaizumi looks over at his laptop.

“Ah- _ah_ \- sorry, I didn’t mean to!!” Oikawa shouts, guessing his intentions, whisking the laptop away. “Don’t you even _think_ about it-”

“ _Oi_! Bring it back!” Oikawa floats it away from him, Iwaizumi jumping up and managing to grab it. They grapple for a moment, Iwaizumi huffing and swearing when it gives, clutching the device to his chest and running for the kitchen. “Aha!” He smacks it down on the counter and gets it open, logging in. As the wheel spins on screen to indicate the computer loading, the power button dimples in to the case. “ _Oikawa_!” The screen goes dark. “Fucking damnit!”

In a last-ditch attempt, Iwaizumi takes the laptop and presses the power button to reboot it, running for the front door.

“No! No- Iwaizumi! Wait! _Please_ , don’t!!”

He can feel the presence chasing him down the front steps, through the yard and at his side, pulling at the laptop as he vaults the gate.

Iwaizumi steps off the property, falling in to the curb and unlocking his laptop. It’s extraordinarily quiet- no cars moving around, not a single dog bark or bird call. Wondering what happened to Oikawa- and yet overcome by the curiosity of finding out what happened to Oikawa _when he was alive_ –he opens a web page, gets partly through his search when a figure appears in front of him.

Under the crescent moon and weak streetlights, it takes a moment for him to realise that it is _not_ human.

Flickering and mangled, half-formed and seeping ghostly red on the grass; there’s a form of a face and shoulders, though both shift and waver, blurring in to alternating sharpness and mistiness, a patchwork of clarity and abyss-black; like tangible, incarnate television static.

He leans forward, and the way sound returns is akin to sliding face-first through a wall of slime or feathers. The voice grows stronger and less muffled the closer he gets, the further he leans in to the figure on his front lawn.

It’s crying.

“Please- I-Iwa, p-p-please- I-” The voice is coming from the misshapen blur of greys and reds, as distorted and sputtering as the image before him.

“Oi... Is that- _that_ \- fuck, is that _you_?”

“I- what- I-I- oh- _fuck-_ ”

The apparition suddenly dissolves, the red below it flowing and fading into the grass. Iwaizumi jumps to the spot it had just been.

A chill shoots through him, a full-body shudder running into every inch of his body. His veins hold and fail, heart faltering for a moment, for minutes after, every time he rethinks over what he’s seen.

“H-hey, Oikawa- _wait_!!”

 _Nothing_.

He stands in front of the house, laptop in his arms, trapped in a state of shock.

_'oikawa toruu kitagawa daic   ‘_

Exiting the search, he slams the laptop shut and runs back into the house.

“Oikawa, I’m _sorry_. I shouldn’t have… Please, talk to me?”

 _Nothing_.

The house is unusually cold- even for the almost-winter night –and, after the initial disbelief of _holy fuck did I really just see a ghost_ wears off, it feels too-large for one small high school boy. “I’m... So sorry, can’t you say something?”

 _Nothing_.

 

  * ••••



 

Before he showers, Iwaizumi will stand in front of the mirror and look at himself. He’ll press his fingertips to his thin cheeks and prod his ribcage, his bruised sides struggling to keep the muscle he tries to grow. Sometimes his hands will be bloodied. Sometimes the nails will be chipped; sometimes his fingers will be bandaged or splinted. Sometimes there will be holes where his eyes would be- nothing to track the progress, the progression of his hands as they make their ways around. Sometimes he'll whisper to the mirror and lean in close with his tongue held between his teeth.

 

Although he comes home less and less with the marks of beat-up- cracked teeth and bruised eyes and sore ribs that stop him from breathing properly -Iwaizumi looks no more happy now than he did when he initially moved in.

 

  * ••••



 

“You _know_ I’m living in Oikawa Tooru’s house, what’s it going to take for you to say something?”

Iwaizumi is _done_.

He’s over it. He’s sick of being ignored by Oikawa, and he’s sick of ignoring the topic with Matsukawa and Hanamaki. Hence, the bluntness of his question. It’s the truth, after all, and everyone has always told him that honesty is key. He’s got the pair trapped, alone, in the middle of lunch break.

Such a shame, that being honest always feels dishonest, and lying gives him the feeling of a security blanket.

“… Holy _shit_ , he _finally_ figured it out.” Hanamaki breathes, half-falling on to Matsukawa, who’s gone pale as a ghost. “Took you long enough… Why the sudden demand, you rude shit?”

“I talked to Kageyama about it.”

“Fucking _what_ \- you talked to Kageyama about Oikawa?” Matsukawa breathes, both sounding and looking as though all the wind had been punched out of his lungs.

“Well, he- he kinda passed it off, and cried, and-”

“You made him _cry_ , how could you!” Hanamaki shrieks, and for once, there’s not a trace of humor in it. “What the _hell,_ man, that’s _disgusting_ \- not to mention _rude_ as fuck!”

“I- I know, alright…” He flinches, he _jolts_ and steps back at the way Hanamaki spits ‘disgusting’, gritting his teeth and fighting on. _These guys are my friends… They’re my friends, they wouldn’t… Do that-_ “I’m just… Really- I’ve…” _How to approach it… Caring for them will make me look manipulative… Because of my house it’ll sound suspicious… I’m not sure…_ “And I’m sorry for making him cry, I didn’t… I heard about it, that he- Oikawa died, and I didn’t know- I still don’t know- what happened, and I’m just curious, I guess.”

“Aha, he’s _curious_ , Mattsun, hear that?! He went and bullied fucking _Kageyama_ for-”

“Okay, Hiro, that’s enough…” Matsukawa’s voice is shaky like Iwaizumi’s never heard it before, “Kageyama’s just… Whenever we mention _him_ , so don’t go demonizing the guy. Iwaizumi… The way you asked us just now was shitty.”

“Sorry- I- I’m just frustrated-”

“Yeah, well, so are we.” Growls Hanamaki, letting Matsukawa take a step back. “Don’t you think we like it, having to keep this-”

“Takahiro, it’s not his problem-”

“We love you, okay, but you’re- this is with _no_ subtlety, no warning or connection- you have to get how _hard_ this is, right?”

“I- I, yeah, of course, totally, I’m- I just-” _Honesty, honesty, honesty_ \- “Yahaba and Kyotani were over, a while ago, and we- we all _know_ something happened, not that- you’re- it doesn’t- you don’t let it affect, like, training, but we were-”

“Curious about how… I ended up setting, right?”

“That kind of- was a stepping off point, yeah, but the further I got in to it, the more…”

“… You…” Hanamaki swallows hard, running a hand through his hair and pulling a little. He glances around before continuing, checking for anyone standing too close by, “… Ugh, fuck… _Okay_ … You know that Kageyama… Was in our middle school, yeah? In his first year when me, Mattsun and Oikawa were third years… So… Oikawa- was, uh. He… He kind of hated the poor kid, see, and all Kageyama ever did was look up to him, too naïve to realise what kind of talent he had- what his own talent would mean for Oikawa, for everything Oikawa has worked towards. He didn’t see himself as a threat to Oikawa, so he never got why Oikawa was so mean to him to… To begin with. We- me and Mattsun, we… Uh, we talked to him- to Oikawa -one day, shouted at him, really, and- like, we knew he wasn’t in to girls, at that point, he was pretty… Pretty _gay_ , right… And he- when his attitude towards Kageyama changed and… And he started, y’know, being nice to the kid… And he got nicer, _and nicer_ , and… Kageyama was super happy. Like, _creepy_ over-excited to see him every day even though his quiet and awkward way-of-life never changed, and Oikawa… He came to adore the attention, the constant talking and practice with someone growing to his level. He kind of _forgot_ that Kageyama would be a rival in the long run, but that’s because… Because Oikawa… Oikawa, he kinda- a _lot_ \- he really… Um… Fell in love with him.”

_Oikawa…_

_… Oikawa was in… In love with Kageyama?_

“… _What_ -”

“ _And_ \- although Kageyama was, like, a young kid, and all that shit- he was _obsessed_ , and- and that was enough, right, that’s close enough when you’re a little teenager whose idol pays you as much… As much _attention_ as Oikawa did, even- even though it was through volleyball- well, in… In the guise of volleyball, but… But- y’know, the rumor… The _rumor_ was out there. Oikawa had never been really interested in women, and then- and _then_ there’s this _thing_ with Kageyama, y’know. The lunchtimes, the practices and staying behind late, going to one another’s houses to watch games, and Kageyama- he’s… He’s had a shit childhood, as you know, and Oikawa’s mum and dad were just as- _fuck_ I still wanna punch them so bad, but… It built, and it built, and _built_ , and those boys… Haha… They didn’t help matters at all, going to one another’s classes to pick each other up for lunch, sitting together with their heads close, watching volleyball videos on their phone, or drawing game plans, or whatever the fuck… And… And then… Someone thought it’d be funny to, _hah_ , to take a picture of them and post it online with all these tags, like ‘homo’ and- and, well, use your imagination… And… Yeah, it got back to Oikawa’s dad.

“Oikawa, he- he didn’t show up to practice for three days, and- and we should have _known_ , we- f-fuck- he turned up to Friday morning practice and he could hardly lift his shoulder to do a standing serve, he couldn’t run to warm up because of how badly bruised his feet were. And- and halfway through morning practice, of sitting on the bench and Kageyama just sitting next to him, watching him, like he always- he just. _Lost. It_.

“He broke down, just- just _sobbing_ , curled up on himself and just cried for an hour, maybe two. He was in _so_ _much_ pain, and- and when, right after he started, when Kageyama tried to ask him what was wrong… He… He hit him. Oikawa just- struck out and punched Kageyama, punched him right in the face, almost knocked him out cold. The- he was fine, the kid was okay, but- he was _terrified_ , understandably. _He_ had no idea, _no clue_ what was going on, what had happened, and that… That Oikawa could have… _Blamed him_ for what happened…”

Behind Hanamaki, Iwaizumi can see Matsukawa reaching up to wipe his eyes, hands coming away from his splotchy face, eyelids shiny with rubbed tears. His chest clenches- for Matsukawa, and Hanamaki, and Kageyama…

 _And_ _Oikawa…_

_Maybe you make a little more sense to me, now…_

_You’re not too different from me… You’re not so different…_

_… And… Kageyama, fuck…_

“Mattsun and I weren’t gonna let him go back home like that- _hell_ no. What kind of friends would w be? And- ahaha, that _fucker_ , he told us not to- not to _worry_ , he hadn’t been there since the Monday night that his dad found out and initially… That’s why his feet were so bruised- he was just… _Running_. Or- walking, leaving, whatever- and when he came back to ours for Friday and Saturday night, it was almost- almost like normal, I guess? But then… I- when he was getting changed- he was so… He was so thin. And- and we both, Mattsun and I… _Knew_ , like, he struggled with- with his mind, with keeping even and not… Getting to depressed over his… Over himself, his judgment of himself, but we never knew he, y’know… Hurt himself. Beyond, y’know… Skipping meals, and not sleeping… But _this_ , this was just… And, like, I was just bringing tea into the room we were gonna sleep in, and he had taken his shirt off and it was- it was still in his hands, but I saw everything, I saw _everything_ … And he looked- he looked at me… All bloodied and- and _covered_ in cuts and bruises and scratch marks and there was this gash- these- these _gashes_ over his chest, like someone had taken a jagged fucking _knife_ to him, and he just. He _smiles_ , and says something like ‘it’s only temporary’ or- or something, like- as if _that_ would calm me down- and… That’s where it all gets a bit blurry.

“I remember dropping the tray and screaming for Mattsun, and- the fear in Oikawa’s eyes, like if he kept me quiet it’d be like it didn’t happen… And he pulled his shirt back on and _ran_ , he dodged both of us and he left the house and- we couldn’t keep up with him, even without his shoes, even with all his bruises and… He was always so fast- and- and we- we thought he wouldn’t go home, we thought he was just… Just hiding, or something, but it was a Sunday night- his dad always stays out late on Sundays, and his mum rarely bothered to come home to a house without her husband, because she was so… Disappointed in Oikawa- and… He- the Monday morning, we… Our coach had to be the one to tell us, because he- the school was told- they- of course they had to be- and… First thing in the morning, we… Of course it hadn’t reached us, and… I just remember staring. At Issei. And… And Kageyama hadn’t come to practice that morning, so he- he didn’t find out until he got to school when classes started, and he- he went straight back home, I… For the whole day, I didn’t cry. I watched everyone cry, I watched Issei cry, I stared at him for most of it, really, and- it wasn’t until… I got a text, from Kageyama that night- and Mattsun was staying with me, because- why the fuck would we want to be alone after… After _that_ , but… It came through at, like, two in the morning, the text from Kageyama, and all it said was ‘why’... _Why_.

“Because he happened to like boys, and because people happened to be so up their own _asses_ that they got a rush off of hurting someone else- for fun, for… Kageyama suffered a hit, too, but- but we, me and Issei, we… Made sure to stay with him, you know? We’d walk him home as much as we could while he was still going through middle school, and we- we made sure he joined Aoba Johsai, so we could protect him. He… He used to be a shy kid, a bit of a shit when it came to being a setter, but... It- the more he got bullied, the more his confidence dragged… He wasn’t a starter in his third year, even though he was skilled enough to practice with us and a few of the third years on our team at the time. He’s a good kid… And he’s still trying to figure out- and, well, come to terms with what… What Oikawa… And…”

Letting out a gush of breath, Hanamaki hides his face in his hands, seems to crumple, fold in on himself a little after letting out all he’d been holding in. He leans back into Matsukawa’s hand when it hits down on his shoulder, sliding down over his shoulder blade and coming to rest on his hip.

“I’m… I’m so sorry…”

Matsukawa meets Iwaizumi’s eyes and nods. He nods back, unsure of what else he can do aside from hugging the boy, bundling together the two in front of him and holding them until they recover. It’s too late for that, for saying ‘it’s going to be okay’ and ‘you’ll be alright’ because these two have come far enough on their own- side by side –to know that.

“Iwaizumi, you don’t need to apologise to us about it...” Hanamaki mutters as he lowers his hands to rest gently on either side of his neck, a soft smile bathed in the filtered sun. Shining though the frosted out windows topping the divider wall reminding him of the time of day, the year, dashing the gloom of Hanamaki’s story away, Iwaizumi feels his head rush as he’s drawn back to the present. They’re still hidden behind a few half-plaster dividers, sheltered from the rest of the school. Dust flecks streak around them, untouched and unhurried in the stillness. Distant laughter echoing in from the school grounds. Kyotani’s telltale roar at something Yahaba must have said, Kindaichi’s character cackle that can be heard for miles. If he closes his eyes, he could pair Oikawa’s laughter- Oikawa’s smiling, cheeky words –with the schoolyard cacophony. He could make a dream out of the despair he feels from Hanamaki and Matsukawa, the despair he feels _for_ them, and relieve it.

_It’s not fair, that I have him at home…_

_That I have what they’re missing…_

_… That Oikawa has actively avoided them as much as they’ve avoided his house…_

Breaking the moment, Hanamaki whacks himself hard in the face, reaches with that same hand to grab Matsukawa’s, and slings his free arm around Iwaizumi’s shoulders. “But if you _ever_ make my blueberry son or my cream-puff husband cry again, I _will_ fuck you up, Zoomi.”

Iwaizumi laughs at that, Matsukawa following suit, and Hanamaki squeezes them both closer to his side for a moment before walking forward into the bustle of the popular lunch area. “You _do_ mean a lot to us, Iwaizumi. And I’m… Despite it, I’m glad you asked. It feels good to talk about it- fuck knows how long we hold these things up, right?”

Iwaizumi thinks about his home, about his mother struggling towns and cities away to keep them afloat, about the team and their individual issues, about how sometimes practices will be halved in numbers, or how certain people will be missing, leaving certain other members knowing why- struggling through practice, grim and somber and distracted. He thinks about Kyotani, being kept on the edge for ages- for far longer than Iwaizumi had been –and never once pressing Kageyama for more, as he had far more to worry about, far more to make about his own solitary- minus the dogs -life. He’s thinking about Hanamaki and Matsukawa, holding all their thoughts together, to one another, and helping Kageyama in the fear that they’d lose another boy to the subject; unable to tell anyone else, due to the _subject_ of being gay alone, and what it meant- how it somehow managed to offend other people.

He’s thinking about Oikawa, even after the three of them have rejoined the group and been carried in to the conversation- and in easy sweeps it’s all under the rug, practiced and honed to a virtuosity out of habit, out of need.

Iwaizumi’s thinking about Oikawa: the fear of being found out, of being seen, of talking aloud, of approaching Iwaizumi. Giving him a cold shoulder when he first brought Hanamaki and Matsukawa to his gate’s step, rewarding him for having Kyotani and Yahaba over.

Caring for him when he got too in his own head.

Caring for him when he came home, hurting all over- distracting him on weekends, keeping him moving, active, looking forward to things, be they small or dumb or kind or downright irritating.

 

Oikawa suddenly makes a whole lot more sense, no longer an interesting part of his life he’s striving to seek information about, to evaluate and discover. Some paranormal quirk in his home, something he’d taken for granted, taken as a venture, undertaken to find as much about it as he could.

_Oikawa is my friend._

_He’s been my friend, all along… All this time, and all I wanted to do was…_

 

  * ••••



 

Iwaizumi trudges back to his house after practice. He expected it to be brutal, facing Matsukawa and Hanamaki in the intimacy of the court after all they talked about. It wasn’t, thankfully. But even despite managing to take Kageyama aside and apologise profusely, Iwaizumi’s still ridden by an unshakable culpability. Shame, guilt- deep in his gut, burning a pit in his insides that stretched and rolled bile to his tongue every time he jumped to spike, or serve, or block.

Practice was a sharp reminder that neither Hanamaki nor Matsukawa- or Kageyama or Kyotani or _anyone_ -knew whom Iwaizumi is going home to.

 

Bypassing the front door, the first thing he does is go to the backyard and stare at the swing.

The light yellow sheets hanging on the porch rustle and he winces, expecting Oikawa’s sharp voice to come cutting through the air.

 _Nothing_ …

 _Not again… Not again… Please come back_ …

In the dead branches above his head, a few last leaves wobble in the breeze, the sound of rustling grass replacing the cars dashing for the driveways at the late-night hour, forming their own cacophony of leafy highways and ladybird’s homes. As if in total trance, supernatural or no, his backyard feels bubbled- shut off, at peace.

_Please, Oikawa…_

_… Please. Come on…_

When a voice sounds from behind him, he’s hardly shocked. Especially once he considers the words.

“You talked to them. Didn’t you.”

Accusing. Hard, cold.

 _Fuck_ …

“… Oikawa-”

“ _Don’t_.”

Terse silence spreads between them, in a way Iwaizumi’s unfamiliar with. There are always shouts, cusses, pants or yelps. Never _silence_ , not between him and the one who’s mad at him.

Thankfully, it doesn’t last too long.

“… I can’t believe you, you know, Iwaizumi.”

He takes it back- Iwaizumi takes it _all_ back.

Silence was better, this is far worse- take whatever he believed was worst-case and multiply it by nine million. Anything, _anything_ , violence or screaming or just _anything_ \- it would be better than the lifeless, defeated tone.

“What kind of fucking _right_ did you think you had? I’m-”

“I’m s-”

“Not _alive_ , why couldn’t you _leave_ it? Why did you have to ask _them_!?”

“You’re-” He snaps his mouth shut, trying not to let himself get too frustrated, but _fuck_ is it hard not to make a jab back at the boy.

“No, Iwaizumi, _you_ are-”

_You’re disgusting- you’re gross- you’re bad- you’re horrible- you’re going to die alone- you’re going to die and no one will miss you- you’re pathetic- weak- disgusting, disgusting- your kind is disgusting- you’re not my friend anymore- not my team mate- not my son-_

Oikawa’s whimper spooks him, nearly giving him enough courage to turn around, _why am I even scared of turning around, I can’t see him, he’s dead, he is fucking dead-_

“- You’re _unbelievable_.”

“ _Rich_ ,” Iwaizumi loses control of his mouth, of the perfect flat line snarling into a scowl, squeezing his eyes shut tight, “Coming from a _ghost_ -”

A windows smashes behind him- he startles, turning to see glass falling from the second story.

_My bedroom window…_

“What the fuck-” He stops, spotting his laptop hovering in mid air, “My laptop, what the _hell_ , Oikawa-”

“ _You_!” Oikawa screams, smashing the laptop down from the second story through the overhang of the porch’s canopy, crushing it into the ground, shattering the device, splitting the screen from the keyboard and scattering the key buttons. “ _Asked_!” Iwaizumi jumps at sudden movement to his right, whirling in time to see his volleyball net getting torn out of place, cords snapping and the poles ripped up out of the dirt. “ _Them_!!!”

Right when Iwaizumi goes to act, opens his mouth and draws breath to speak, he is slammed up against the tree, arms flailing and tangling in the swing’s supports, the rope rubbing harshly across his throat. Blinding pain rushes in wakes from his spine, a nauseating creak and flutter along his skin as the unseen force winds its way around his throat and keeps him pinned all along his front.

“ _O-Oika- gh_ -” He’s choking on the weight, toes scraping at the surfaced roots of the tree and heels beating against the trunk, trying to gain some leverage. Whatever’s holding him up is refusing to budge.

“How- _dare_ \- _you_!” He’s slammed off and on the tree a few times, held down with even more pressure than before. Although his feet are now flat on the ground, there’s no way to fight the immense weight of the otherworldly power.

That same ghastly apparition from the other night, the mix of wavering wisps and human form, appears before him. This time, there is more precision to it.

Or, maybe it’s the lack of oxygen.

A semi-discernable screaming face gives a visual source to Oikawa’s voice. A spectral forearm is running down the center of the space between him and Oikawa’s figure, splitting his shadowing-over eyesight. Five points of pressure gain precision against the sides of his neck, and he identifies that it’s a hand- not some bar of gravity, _a human hand_ -gripping around his throat.

“ _Put_ me- _do-own_ \- _augh_ -”

“You didn’t have the _courage_ to ask me, so you went and asked _them_!! My two best friends, who have been suffering _this_ \- and the aftershocks for years! They don’t need _any_ more trouble!! They don’t need to remember- they need to be able to move on- they-” The hand around his throat changes. And through the haze of oxygen-short breaths, Iwaizumi feels that it’s not losing strength, rather beginning to become solid, warmer. Again, it’s probably just him being on the verge of passing out, the hallucinations- “ _Kageyama_ \- and- and then _you_ come along and bring this shit all back up- I- I thought you were _better_ than this!! I thought we were _friends,_ I- I wish- you _never_ came here, that you never moved in, that- I wish- I wish you would _just_ _leave_!!”

Oikawa rips Iwaizumi forward with his hand and shoves him back against the tree, and his whole body shimmers in to visibility.

Iwaizumi can _see him_ , from head to toe, and he would be gasping for air if he weren’t already.

From the shredded skin of his forearms, the chest and stomach carved with scars and trails of blood, the black-purple patterns on his neck edged with crimson rope burn, the one eye bloodshot and bled over, the blood coming from his right ear and his nose- dripped over his lips staining them candy red, down his chin, running in to the mess of his neck.

Standing fluffy and soft, stark in contrast to everything his body is not, Oikawa’s hair is done up perfectly.

And the pale, pale skin, a shade saved only for the dead- so white it may as well be see-through.

Only, it’s not. Only _very_ slightly, at most.

Instinctively, Iwaizumi lifts a hand to press against Oikawa’s face, unsure whether he’s trying to push him away or pull him closer.

“Oikawa...”

His hand finds a place for a blink of time, skin perfectly smooth save for the cracks of blood. Then, his hand passes through Oikawa’s face as if nothing had happened- as if Oikawa had never been there. The look on his face- and on Oikawa’s face –say otherwise.

Oikawa shudders, dropping Iwaizumi and stumbling back, feet hitting hard on the surface of the garden for the first steps as he fades, leaving little billows of dust. His hands fly to his face- the one that was holding Iwaizumi returning to translucent like the rest of his figure.

“Wh… _What_...” Oikawa’s image starts to flicker, fade further.

“ _Don’t disappear again_.” He barks, voice harsh from the restriction on his windpipe, harsher with emotion, with desperation. Oikawa drops his hands to his side and stares at him. “Please, Oikawa. _Please_ \- I can’t, I couldn’t stand it, when you were gone...”

“... Yeah?” It’s meek, and it’s sad, and it’s dark and _everything_ Iwaizumi hates about the pair of them- how much _bad_ they have to hide. Hands balling in to fists, he steels himself.

_He’s my friend, he’s my friend…_

“Don’t _yeah_ me, smug bastard,” Iwaizumi steps forward, coughing at the rasp of his own words, “You owe me a fucking laptop.”

“Sorry… About that… You should’ve seen your face-” Chuckling sounds much better on Oikawa, as dejected and depressing as it sounds right now. Iwaizumi hums, looking away, kicking his feet against the dirt, tracing over the footprints Oikawa had left there.

“I… You don’t need to apologise… To me, about it… Just… Make it up to me-”

“It’s not like I can get a job, Iwa-chan. I’m an ugly ghost living in an ugly house with an uglier tenant-” That little grin, though, now Iwaizumi can _see_ it rather than left guessing what it _might_ look like whenever Oikawa’s words get too tight and too high-pitched, breaking off in to laughter.

_The mischievous little shit…_

“Oh, get _out_!”

“No, _you_ get out!” _There it is, there it is, there it is_ \- and then his smile is falling away into something smaller, something sweeter, his tone dialing down not in intensity, _no… He sounds…_ “It’s my house, remember? Silly Iwa.” _… Fond? No, no…_

_That’s not it, either…_

_Like whenever I mess up a homework question, or drop something on my foot- whenever he scolds me for not chopping vegetables properly, it always sounds so endeared… So…_

“… Loving?”

“Hm? What was that, Iwa-chan, you _love_ me?”

“No- it was n-nothing, fuck off-”

“Why _Iwa_ , you’re blushing!!”

“I said _fuck off-_ ”

“And _I_ told you, I _can’t_ ,” Oikawa giggles, “You can’t get rid of me! Hahaha!”

“ _Good_!” Iwaizumi shouts, covering his mouth and glaring at Oikawa when he feigns shock at what he predicted would be a rude comeback. The mask melts into an honest jaw-drop, round eyes, the whole package. Iwaizumi must be on fire, now, he _must_. Even the backs of his knees sting in a way only a flush can itch.

“Wh- _huh_?!”

“I mean- I-I- I meant-” And Oikawa flies up into the branches overhead, kicking his legs and cackling down at Iwaizumi, “Oh, just leave me alone!”

“You’ll have to try harder than that, _Hajime_!” Oikawa sings.

“I’m making dinner, now!” Hurrying for the back door, he ignores Oikawa’s tittering, ears burning, his back prickling under his school jersey.

He burns his hand on the pot, not watching what he’s doing and instead becoming distracted by Oikawa- still sitting outside in the tree, pale as a moonbeam in the dead tree, picking leaves from their frail holds. It’s an empty sky, a new moon tonight, though Oikawa appears to glow and Iwaizumi can’t take his eyes off of him. His head tilts back to stare off towards the heavens, cupping a number of leaves in his ethereal hands, letting one float out between his fingers every now and then. See-through as the shape of his body is, his features and details are visible. In their backdrop, they’re marred and filled out with deep navy and starlight, resting in and out of distant constellations every time the branch waves in the wind.

The fire alarm goes off- his pan of whatever the fuck he’d been cooking is on fire, he can’t even remember what was in there -and when he looks back outside, Oikawa is gone.

A panicked second passes, and the fire alarm stops. Its plastic casing is torn from the roof of the hallway and chucked though the door, aimed at his head.

“Don’t burn my house down, _stupid_ Iwa!”

 

  * ••••



 

"I’m nothing."

"What are you talking about, Iwa... Moron. I’m the one who’s nothing. I’m a ghost."

Ebony keys that play themselves, streaking melodies and harmonies softer than the snow falling in the windows- it’s the thing of fairytales, Iwaizumi thinks, sitting on the new floorboards of his kitchen and sipping at his hot tea. He had to recruit the first year’s help to drag the old upright piano along on three skateboards- all belonging to Kunimi, surprisingly –down a block and a side road and lift it up the stairs into his over-cramped living room.

“… Yeah, so you can’t feel the fucking _cold_. Let me turn the fucking heater on.”

Above the tinkle of the piano, Oikawa croons back.

“An admirable set-up, lovely, but you’re not nothing to me. Put another sweater on and let Iwa-mama save up for New Years.”

Iwaizumi complies, not without grumbling the whole way.

“Can I at least turn a light on?”

“Candles are nicer.”

“… Whatever you say.”

Oikawa refocuses on his tune- Iwaizumi doesn’t miss the slipups as he enters the room, figuring that curling up on the couch and spreading his core temperature with a few pillows will keep him warmer than he’d been huddling with the cockroaches on his kitchen floor. He doesn’t miss the way Oikawa’s shoulders tense, either. Dark blemishes on his whitened skin flickering, like a fish coming closer to the surface before diving deeper, fading into bottomless blue, into faintness.

Perching between two of the larger throw pillows, pulling a blanket up around his neck and the hand holding his tea mug, Iwaizumi closes his eyes.

“… Maybe you’re here for a reason, Oikawa.”

“… Hm?”

“What if… You’re stuck here for a reason?”

“That’s _dumb_.” Oikawa dismisses him at once. But Iwaizumi knows him, by now- knows him well enough that he fully expects the jumbled slide of keys not five taps in to a new song, suddenly stopping. “Why?”

“… Why indeed.”

“Is this because I…” Oikawa points down to himself, fully aware Iwaizumi won’t bother opening his eyes for anything, now that he’s down and nestled.

“I can see you- I… I _felt_ you, Oikawa. I felt your hand, around my throat, and my hand on your face… You left prints in the earth, you…”

“That last one’s a bit baseless…”

“Do you want me to get a fucking forensics team in here- Oikawa,” He tilts his head down, keeps his eyes closed and sips at his tea, groaning when Oikawa presses at the piano’s lower octaves all at once, “That’s not the _point_.”

“What _is_ the point, then, Iwaizumi?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Why did you bother saying anything?”

“…. I don’t know. Stop deflecting.”

“Deflecting? _Me_? Never…” They both scoff at the sarcasm, and it has Iwaizumi smiling. He doesn’t miss the smirk in Oikawa’s voice: “ _Okay_ , let’s try this, then.”

Iwaizumi raises his eyebrow when he hears the piano stool creak, fully expecting Oikawa to hurl the thing at him. What he doesn’t expect is the clammy sensation all over his face- the same one that coated his hand when he tried to touch Oikawa a week ago.

He snaps his eyes open, greeted with Oikawa’s most childish grin. He’s sitting back at the opposite edge of the couch, one leg extended through Iwaizumi’s fortress of blankets and pillows, the heel of his foot just under his eyes, making them cross as he tries to figure out what’s making his cheeks go stiff and ice-cold-

“Get your _foot_ out of my _face_!” He splutters, leaning away, lacking the motivation to really escape Oikawa’s coldness. Even the tea is sapped of its warmth, and he sets it on the coffee table without breaking eye contact from Oikawa.

“Well, do you feel it _on_ your face or _in-_ ”

“Won’t you kick my _brain_ out of my head if you materialize while-”

“ _Fuck_ what kind of science fiction shit have you been watching, Iwa-chan?!”

“ _Foot out of face_!!” Iwaizumi slaps his hand through the air, phasing through Oikawa’s shin. Oikawa retaliates by bending forward and poking his fingers in to Iwaizumi’s knees, running them wild through his thighs. “No, Oikawa, I _mean_ it! Stop putting things in me!”

“Oh, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa gasps dramatically, his body poised on his free foot, tilting towards Iwaizumi, intent to fall on to- _in to_ Iwaizumi, quite literally, if Iwaizumi doesn’t do anything to stop it. “Hold me close! I never knew you felt that way about me!!”

“ _Damnit_!”

Barely avoiding a full-body experience of _ghost_ , Iwaizumi rolls onto the tight floor space between the coffee table and the couch, flailing to sit up, watching Oikawa disappear into the seat of the lounge.

“Meanie, Iwa-chan!” Comes a faint call from within the pillows. He ignores Oikawa and goes to fix himself a new cup of tea.

 

  * ••••



 

“Mind if we come in?”

“I invited you over, idiots, just come in already. I could see you, you know- pacing around in front of my house, carrying on like an old married couple.”

It’s not much, but it gets the two laughing as the walk though the door, closing it against the snow blanketing the ground outside.

“Guess we can’t really practice with the whether like this, right?” Matsukawa chuckles to himself, toeing off his shoes and shedding his raincoat. Helping Hanamaki out of his scarves, he misses the way Iwaizumi leans around manically to check over the living room. “I’ll choose a movie- come help, Makki.”

“I’ll make popcorn.”

“Cool. Thanks, Zoomi. Where do you keep your DVDs?”

“Cupboard under the TV,” He mumbles, shuffling in to the kitchen, “If you can’t find what you want, we can stream it online.”

“Oh, fancy!” Laughs Matsukawa. “Kinda glad it’s snowy, now.”

“You like this kind of weather, huh, Iwaizumi?”

Head buried in the cupboard and facing down his army of tea boxes, Iwaizumi misses the question- too distracted by choice to focus on anything beyond grabbing a few microwave popcorn packets and making his mind up on tea.

“Huh? Snow?”

“Remember?” Hanamaki lets out a huff of the long-suffering sort, Iwaizumi can see it now; the rolling eyes, the elbow jabbing Matsukawa and their shared, playful grins. He throws two popcorn bags into the microwave, blocking out Hanamaki’s rant as he fills the kettle, puts it on to boil. “It was one of the first things I learnt about you. You know- I said I loved Golden Week training. Your own sweat being the only thing that can cool you down in training, drinking water at the end of the day until you nearly throw up, scaring little Kindaichi with cicada shells, that sort of thing- and you said how much you loved being able to layer up sweaters, and how your legs never felt the cold, and you love how pink your nose goes on frosty mornings, even though you complain about it?”

“Makki, what have we learnt by now?” Matsukawa joins in on the teasing, his voice low and edged with giggles. “If Zoomi is complaining about _anything_ , it means he loves it, and-”

The microwave beeps, drowning out whatever else Matsukawa had to say. Moving over to the sink with the hot bags pinched in his fingers, he carefully empties them into a bowl.

“ _Is that so, Iwa-chan?_ ” Iwaizumi jolts and dumps the bowl of popcorn in the sink- full of last night’s dishwater -when he hears Oikawa’s whisper, seemingly going directly in to his brain. It’s the breaths of wind on each syllable, the tickle of the hairs around the shell of his ear that gives him a fright, not the closeness or the buzz of Oikawa’s ‘s’s and the purred ‘chan’ tacked on to the end of his nickname.

Despite himself, he kicks out in the direction of the voice, a bitter ‘fuck off’ aimed at the ceiling.

“That’s a weird way to kill flies, man.” Hanamaki is standing in the door, watching Iwaizumi curiously. “Want me to make it? Because I ain’t having your dirty-dish popcorn.”

“It’s winter, Makki, all the flies are dead!” Matsukawa yells from the lounge room.

 

Hanamaki and Matsukawa hang around for three movies: a new-release favourite of Kyotani’s about dogs that Iwaizumi loves, some gritty horror that he sleeps through, and a weird anime feature that leaves all four of them on the edges of their seats.

“Don’t you want to see them?" Iwaizumi asks as soon as the door’s shut behind his friends, stepping cautiously into the kitchen, still unsure what Oikawa’s reaction will be. The boy in question zips down from where he’d ben sitting and waiting on the kitchen counter, ingredients Iwaizumi had lain out for dinner swept aside to make room for him. Even in his semi-transparent state, Oikawa is somewhat paranoid about coming in to accidental contact with objects in the physical world. Ever since Iwaizumi showed him the meaning behind his ‘Kali Ma’ joke a few nights back, Oikawa has been careful about touching Iwaizumi, too. He’s also been impersonating Harrison Ford and diving around the house at random, screaming about ancient artifacts.

Iwaizumi still doesn’t know whether to count introducing Oikawa to Indiana Jones as a win or a loss…

"I’d rather be with Iwa-chan."

"… But you can have me- you’re with me all the time, but Makki and M-”

"You’re the only one I’d trust, Hajime." He feels the collar of his shirt flutter under Oikawa’s hands, smoothing down against his collar, tugged gently this way and that, and _wow_ does Iwaizumi feel like an asshole because he can’t stop thinking about the way Oikawa yell-sings that stupid theme tune as he tumbles about. Of all things, right now, _of all things_ \- Oikawa’s sparkling eyes, his own anxiety that Oikawa will hold him at arms length for having Matsukawa and Hanamaki over- all is to the beat and hum of The Raiders March. Iwaizumi _really_ hates his brain, and lives in constant fear that Oikawa’s telekinetic powers extend to mind reading. “Are you even listening-”

“Of course I am!”

Oikawa cocks his head, regarding him. A smile splits the terse, serious expression- his tension falling away, quick and loose, like the rhythm of Iwaizumi’s heart in his chest.

_Like the rhythm of fucking Indiana Jones-_

“… You’re thinking about Indiana Jones, aren’t you?”

“Am not-”

“Yeah, you are- you get that same look when you get in an argument in a forum about Godzilla-”

“ _Oikawa_.” _Stop deflecting_ , Oikawa’s heard that tone of voice enough times.

“I _trust_ you, idiot… Like _this_ , I mean- it’s obvious, isn’t it? You… You know me as I am now. You won’t compare it to how I was before. You... You wouldn’t treat me differently..." Oikawa sighs. The breath that leaves him hits Iwaizumi’s forehead, upsetting the spikes of hair that naturally fall forward. "And most of all, you… You understand."

"I... Oikawa.. I’m-" _I’m so grateful, you have to know that- understanding I’m not alone, you did that._

_Having someone with me, having you- it wouldn’t be the same, I don’t think, if it were anyone else but you… I don’t think it would’ve been as good- everything would have been so different if you weren’t with me, if it wasn’t you in this house, I…_

_Do you know how thankful I am right now, and forever will be, for you? For just having you in my life?_

_I think I could even love you, so please, please-_ “Please, don’t- don’t leave…”

"I’ll stay here, okay? I’ll be here for as long as you need. I’ll stay..."

"You…” His heart is about to beat right out of his chest, he’s so certain that Oikawa can hear it, is mimicking it and tapping it out on his thigh as he waits for Iwaizumi to manage a normal breath. “… You’re going to stay with me?"

"I promise, Hajime..."

The tears in Oikawa’s eyes are what he notices first- dripping onto the floorboards and splashing, staining it darker. And the glow that seems to follow him around like a mist, a shroud of the underworld that he belongs in, fades. His skin goes pink, and browns although only a little; he’s far fairer than Iwaizumi, than most boys. Red blood and dark blemishes of the rope burn and the bruises; it all crashes through the barrier-like translucency.

There are no fanfares or heavenly choirs, no golden sparkles or curtains of light as Iwaizumi imagined, like the ones he sees on TV.

Oikawa’s the one who steps forward first. That’s all the invitation Iwaizumi needs. He falls in to Oikawa’s arms, coming into contact with a warm chest, strong arms winding around his middle, hands resting low near the waistband of his pants, rubbing upwards and exposing his back to the cold of their house, clutching the fabric in shaking, _real hands, he’s really here._

All too soon, Oikawa is leaning out of the embrace. Iwaizumi’s arms fall into nothing, into a cold more distinct and precise than that of the kitchen’s poor insulation, hardly blocking nighttime in winter.

“Come- come _back_ , shit-” Iwaizumi’s voice catches, a lump pressing hard at the back of his throat and choking up his words. Oikawa’s flickering back in to physicality, almost struggling to keep a hold on it.

“I’m not going anywhere, I swear…”

His forehead bumps against Iwaizumi’s, creating a burst of warmth where their skin meets. Hands trail up and down his arms, fingers alternating between spectral and solid.

“You better not, or else I’ll have to kill myself and join you.”

“Don’t joke about that, Iwaizumi.” His tone is light, yet his expression says danger. Iwaizumi figures he would’ve been able to tell this without looking, for all the time he’s spent listening to the boy’s stupid voice and deal with his attitude while lacking a visual aid.

A piercing stare that softens into apology, a twitch of eyebrows, _apology accepted_ , and…

_Nothing._

_Nothing…_ But now they stand in their silence, in their house, eye to eye, with the exception of height difference: one fact that Oikawa has always made a point to mockingly- both figuratively _and_ literally -hold over Iwaizumi’s head.

Disturbed by the stillness for too long, Oikawa laughs quietly. “Well… Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Iwa…”

“You…” Oikawa’s eyes raises sharply, narrowed at his. Iwaizumi’s heart stills in his chest. The blood overrunning his right eye glistens eerily, nearly black in comparison to the unharmed one. Splashes of blood over his nose and mouth, caught in-between his teeth, the large scrape across the bridge of his nose and the dribble from his right ear; Iwaizumi takes it all in as he does for the freckles on his own face. He can tell it’s about more than his appearance, remembers every time Oikawa jokingly calls himself _clingy_ or _‘just too much, Iwa, you’d get sick of me, anyway if I were real’_ , _‘me in my full, lively glory would be too much on this world’_ \- “You’re… Beautiful, Oikawa… You… You’re beautiful…”

“… You too, Iwa-chan…” He watches the boy raise a hand, slow and gentle, precise, to where his heart would be, right under some of the worst of the scars. “… Hurts…”

“… I can still see you, you know?”

Oikawa looks up again- slowly, this time. He watches, dumbfounded and frozen, as Iwaizumi reaches towards him, grabs the hand against his chest and moves it away. “I can still see you.”

“… Yeah, I… I know.”

Iwaizumi pretended not to notice how Oikawa’s hand stayed solid and warm in his, staining his palms and fingertips pink with blood- and in that little moment, in their little house, he was everything.

 

  * ••••



 

\- I.H.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [if you are a fan of these lil AU things , they're all connected ٩(◕‿◕)۶ so if you wanna see where this is going , stay tuned <3 thanks for reading]


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